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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 












TELL ME A STORY 


AND 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY 


1 








X 


X 


TELL ME A STORY 

V 

AND 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY 

\ 



BY 


AUTHOR OF 


MRS. MOLESWORTH 


“ CARROTS,” ” GRANDMOTHER DEAR,” ” A CHRISTMAS POST,” 
ETC., ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER CRANE 


» j > 


Neto iorit 
MACMILLAN AND CO. 



AND LONDON 

1893 


All rights reserved 



COPYKIGHT, 1893, 

By MACMILLAN AND CO. 


New uniform edition set up and electrotyped October, 1893. 


> ^ 

^ > 

« 


Norfajoolj ^rr00: 

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith. 
Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


TELL ME A STORY. 

PAGE 

Introduction 1 

The Reel Fairies 6 

Good-Night, AVinny 33 

Con and the Little People 57 

Mary Ann Jolly 95 

Too Bad ' . 120 


Charlie’s Disappointment 


. 154 


CONTENTS. 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HEEE BABY. 


Four Years Old 

CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

1 

Inside a Trunk 

CHAPTER II. 

21 


CHAPTER III. 


Up in the Morning Early ...... 43 


Going Away 

CHAPTER IV. 

63 

By Land and Sea 

CHAPTER V. 

85 

vi 


CONTENTS. 


vii 

CHAPTER VI. 

PAGE 

An Old Shop and an Ogre 106 

CHAPTER VII. 

Baby’s Secret 132 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Found 153 

CHAPTER IX. 

“ East or West, Hame is Best ” 172 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


TELL ME A STOEY. 

“Naughty, Naughty Aunty,” he said; 

“ Ted will shake you, and shake you, 

TO MAKE YOU GooD ” .... Frofitispiece 


“ All the White Counterpane of her 
Little Bed was covered with Tiny 
Figures, of Various Sizes. They were 

HOPPING, AND DANCING, AND TWIRLING 
THEMSELVES ABOUT IN EvERY IMAGIN- 
ABLE Way” To face pagein 

“Good-Night, Winny,” I said ... “44 

“Welcome to Fairyland, Connemara” . “ 78 

“ Janet stepped closer to her, and depos- 
ited Mary Ann in her Arms ” . . “ 108 

“ What are you staring at so ? ” she 

SAID, SHARPLY “ 123 

“Is THAT MY Charlie crying, First Thing 

on a Monday Morning ? ” . . . “ 165 


Vlll 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

HERR BABY. 


There was Baby, seated on the Grass, 

One Arm fondly clasping Minet’s 
Neck, while with the Other he firm- 
ly HELD THE FAMOUS MoNEY-Box . . Froutispiece 

“ Oh, look, look, Baby’s made Peepy- 
Snoozle into ‘the Parson in the Pul- 
pit THAT couldn’t SAY HIS PrAYERS,’ ” 

CRIED Denny To face page 6 


He sat with One Arm propped on the 
Table, and his Round Head leaning 
ON his Hand, while the Other held 
THE Piece of Bread and Butter — 
Butter downwards, of course 

There was One Trunk which took my 
Fancy more than All the Others 

For a Minute or Two Baby could not 

MAKE OUT WHAT HAD HAPPENED 

“ Zou WILL p’oMiSE, Betsy, p’omise certain 

SURE, NEBBER TO FORGET ” . . . 


17 


3-2 


53 

64 


IX 


X 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Poor Little Boys, for, after all, Fritz 
HIMSELF wasn’t VERY BiG ! ThEY STOOD 
TOGETHER HaND IN HaND ON THE STA- 
TION Platform, looking, and feeling, 
RATHER Desolate .... 

“Are that Jography?” he said . 

“ Oh Auntie,” he said, “ p’ease ’top One 
Minute. Him sees Shiny Glass Jugs 
LIKE Dear Little Mother’s. Oh, do 
’top” 

Baby ventured to peep round. The Lit- 
tle Black-eyed White-capped Man 

CAME TOWARDS THEM SMILING . 

Auntie stood still a AIoment to listen . 
Forgetting All about Everything, except 

THAT HER BaBY WAS FOUND, UP JUMPED 

Mother 


To face page 

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“Naughty, Naughty Aunty,” he said; “ Ted will shake you, 

AND SHAKE YOU, TO MAKE YOU GoOD.” — p. 3. 


— Frontispiece. 





TELL ME A STORY 


BY 

MRS. MOLESWORTH 

AUTHOR OF “carrots,” “ CUCKOO CLOCK,” “a CHRISTMAS POSY,” ETC. 



“ Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book that all may read, 
****** 

So I Avrote my happy songs. 

Every child may joy to hear.” 

The Child and the Piper. — W. Blake 


Neto i0rE 

MACMILLAN AND CO. 

AND LONDON 

1893 


All rights reserved 


First Edition October, 1875. Reprinted December, 1875, 1879, 1880, 
1882, 1885, 1886, 1888, 1891. 


TO A MEMORY 


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TELL ME A STORY. 


INTRODUCTION. 

. . . The children sat round me in the gloaming. 
There were several of them ; from Madge, dear 
Madge with her thick fair hair and soft kind gray 
eyes, down to pretty little Sybil, — Gipsy, we called 
her for fun, — whom you would hardly have guessed, 
from her brown face and bright dark eyes, to be 
Madge’s “own cousin.” They were mostly girls, 
the big ones at least, which is what one would 
expect, for it is not often that big boys care much 
about sitting still, and even less about anything so 
sentimental as sitting still in the twilight doing 
nothing. There were two or three little boys how- 
ever, nice round-faced little fellows, who had not 
yet begun to look down upon “girls,” and were 
very much honoured at being admitted to a good 
game of romps with Madge and her troop. 

It was one of these — the rosiest and nicest of 


1 


2 


TELL ME A STORY. 


them all, little Ted — who pulled my dress and 
whispered, but loud enough for every one to hear, 
with his coaxingest voice — “Tell me a story, 
aunty.” And then it came all round in a regular 
buzz, in every voice, repeated again and again — “ O 
aunty! do; dear, dear aunty, tell us a story.” 

I had been knitting, but it had grown too dark 
even for that. I could not pretend to be “busy.” 
What could I say? I held up my hands in despair. 

“ O children I dear children I ” I cried, “ truly, 
truly, I don’t know what stories to tell. You are 
such dreadfully wise people now-a-days — you have 
long ago left behind you what I used to think 
wonderful stories — ‘Cinderella,’ and ‘Beauty and 
the Beast, ’ and all the rest of them ; and you have 
such piles of story books that you are always read- 
ing, and many of them too written for you by the 
cleverest men and women living! What could I 
tell you that you would care to hear? Why, it 
will be the children telling stories to amuse the 
papas and mammas, and aunties next, like the 
‘glorious revolution’ in ‘Liliput Lev^e!’ No, no, 
your poor old aunty is not quite in her dotage yet. 
She know^s better than to try to amuse you clever 
people with her stupid old hum-drum stories.” 


INTRODUCTION. 


3 


I did not mean to hurt the poor dear little things 
— I did not, truly — I spoke a little in earnest, but 
more in jest, as I shook my head and looked round 
the circle. But to my surprise they took it all for 
earnest, and the tears even gathered in two or three 
pairs of eyes. 

“Aunty, you know we don’t think so,” began 
Madge, gentle Madge always, reproachfully. 

And “It’s too bad of you, aunty, too bad,” burst 
out plain-speaking Dolly. And worst of all, Ted 
clambered manfully up on to my knees, and pro- 
ceeded to shake me vigorously. ^'‘Naughty aunty,” 
he said, “naughty, naughty aunty. Ted will shake 
you, and shake you, to make you good.” 

What could I do but cry for mercy ? and promise 
anything and everything, fifty stories on the spot, if 
only they would forgive me ? 

“But, truly children,” I said again, when the 
hubbub had subsided^ a little, “I am afraid I do not 
know any stories you would care for.” 

“We should care for anything j^ou tell us,” they 
replied, “about when you were a little girl, or 
anything. ” 

I considered a little. “I might tell you some- 
thing of that kind,” I said, “and perhaps, by 


4 


TELL ME A STORY. 


another evening, I might think over about some 
other people’s ‘long agos ’ — your grandmother’s, for 
instance. W ould that please you ? ” 

Great applause. 

“And another thing,” I continued, “if I try to 
rub up some old stories for you, don’t you think 
you might help? You, Madge, dear, for instance, 
you are older than the others — couldn’t you tell 
them something of your own childish life even ? ” 

I was almost sorry I had suggested, it; into 
Madge’s face there came a look I had seen there 
before, and the colour deepened in her cheeks. But 
she answered quite happily, 

“Yes, aunty, perhaps they would like to hear 
about — you know who I mean, and my other 
aunties, who are mammas now as well; if you 
wouldn’t mind writing it down — I don’t think I 
could tell it straight off.” 

“Very well,” I said, “I’ll remember. And if, 
possibly, some not real stories come into my head 
— there’s no saying what I can do till I try,” for I 
felt myself now getting into the spirit of it, — “you 
won’t object, I suppose, to a fairy tale, or an adven- 
ture, for instance — just by way of a change you 
know?” 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


General clapping of hands. 

“Well then,” I said, “to begin with. I’ll tell yon 
a story which is — no, I won’t tell you what it is, 
real or not; you shall find out for yourselves.” 

And in this way it came to pass, you see, that 
there was quite a succession of “blind man’s holi- 
days,” on which occasions poor aunty was always 
expected to have a story forthcoming. 


L 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


“ Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” 

Louisa was a little girl of eight years old. That 
is to sa^^, she was eight years old at the time I am 
going to tell you about. She was nothing par- 
ticular to look at; she was small for her age, and 
her face was rather white, and her eyes were pretty 
much the same as other people’s eyes. Her hair 
was dark brown, but it was not even curly. It was 
quite straight-down hair, and it was cut short, not 
quite so short as little boys’ hair is cut now-a-days, 
but not very much longer. Many little girls had 
quite short hair at that time, but still there was 
something about Louisa’s that made its shortness 
remarkable, if anything about her could have been re- 
markable ! It was so very smooth and soft, and fitted 
into her head so closel}^ that it gave her a small, 
soft look, not unlike a mouse. On the whole, I 
cannot describe her better than by saying she was 
rather like a mouse, or like what you could fancy a 
mouse would be if it were turned into a little girl. 


6 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


7 


Louisa was not shy, but she was timid and not 
fond of putting herself forward ; and in consequence 
of this, as well as from her not being at all what 
is called a “showy’’ child, she received very little 
notice from strangers, or indeed from many who 
knew her pretty well. People thought her a quiet, 
well-behaved little thing, and then thought no more 
about her. Louisa understood this in her own way, 
and sometimes it hurt her. She was not so unob- 
servant as she seemed; and there were times when 
she would have very much liked a little more of the 
caressing, and even admiration, which she now and 
then saw lavished on other children ; for though she 
was sensible in some ways, in others she was not 
wiser than most little people. 

Her home was not in the country: it was in a 
street, in a large and rather smoky town. The 
house in which she lived was not a very pretty one ; 
but, on the whole, it was nice and comfortable, and 
Louisa was generally very well pleased with it, ex- 
cept now and then, when she got little fits of wish- 
ing she lived in some very beautiful palace sort of 
house, with splendid rooms, and grand staircases, 
and gardens, and fountains, and I don’t know all 
what — just the same sort of little fits as she some- 


8 


TELL ME A STORY. 


times had of wishing to be very pretty, and to have 
lovely dresses, and to be admired and noticed by 
every one who saw her. She never told any one of 
these wishes of hers; perhaps if she had it would 
have been better, but it was not often that she could 
have found any one to listen to and understand her; 
and so she just kept them to herself. 

There was one person who, I think, could have 
understood her, and that was her mother. But she 
was often busy, and when not busy, often tired, for 
she had a great deal to do, and several other little 
children besides Louisa to take care of. There 
were two brothers who came nearest Louisa in age, 
one older and one younger, and two or three mites 
of children smaller still. The brothers went to 
school, and were so much interested in the things 
“little boys are made* of,” that they were apt to be 
rather contemptuous to Louisa because she was a 
girl, and the wee children in the nursery were too 
wee to think of anything but their own tiny pleas- 
ures and troubles. So you can understand that 
though she had really everything a little girl could 
wish for, Louisa was sometimes rather lonely and at 
a loss for companions, and this led to her making 
friends in a very odd way indeed. If you guessed 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


9 


for a whole year I do not think you would ever 
guess whom, or I should say what^ she chose for her 
friends. Indeed, I fear that when I tell you you 
will hardly believe me ; you will think I am “ story- 
telling” indeed. Listen — it was not her doll, nor 
a pet dog, nor even a favourite pussy-cat — it was, 
they were rather, the reels in her mother^ s worhhox. 

Can you believe it? It is quite, quite true. I 
am not “making up” at all, and I will tell you 
how it came about. There was one part of the 
day, I dare say it was the hour that the nursery 
children were asleep, when it was convenient for 
Louisa to be sent down-stairs to sit beside her 
mother in the drawing-room, with many injunctions 
to be quiet. Her mother was generally writing or 
“doing accounts” at that time, and not at leisure 
to attend to her little girl; but when Louisa 
appeared at the door she would look up and say 
with a smile, “Well, dear, and what will you have 
to amuse yourself with to-day?” At first Louisa 
used to consider for a minute, and nearly every day 
she would make a different request. 

“A piece of paper and a pencil to write,” she 
would say on Monday perhaps, and on Tuesday it 
would be “The box with the chess, please,” and on 


10 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Wednesday something else. But after a while her 
answer came to be always the same — “ Your big 
workbox to tidy, please, mamma.” 

Mamma smiled at the great need of tidying that 
had come over her big workbox, but she knew she 
could certainly trust Louisa not to wn-tidy it, so 
she used just to push it across the table to her 
without speaking, and then for an hour at least 
nothing more was heard of Louisa. She sat quite 
still, fully as absorbed in her occupation as her 
mother was in hers, till at last the well-known tap 
at the door would bring her back from dream-land. 

“Miss Louisa, your dinner is waiting,” or “Miss 
Louisa, the little ones are quite ready to go out;” 
and, with a deep sigh, the workbox would be closed 
and the little girl would obey the unwelcome 
summons. 

And next day, and the day after, and a great 
many days after that, it was always the same thing. 
But nobody knew anything about these queer 
friends of hers, except Louisa herself. 

There were several families of them, and their 
names were as original as themselves. There were 
the Browns, reels of brown wood wound with white 
cotton; as far as I remember there was a Mr. and 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


11 


Mrs. Brown and three children; the Browns were 
supposed to be quiet, respectable people, who lived 
in a large house in the country, but had nothing 
particularly romantic or exciting about them. There 
were the De Cordays, so named from the conspicu- 
ous mark of “three cord” which they bore. They 
were a set of handsome bone, or, as Louisa called it, 
ivory reels, and she added the “ De ” to their name 
to make it sound grander. There were two pretty 
little reels of fine China silk, whom she distin- 
guished as the Chinese princesses. Blanche and 
Rose were their first names, to suit the colours they 
bore, for Louisa, you see, had learnt a little French 
already; and there were some larger silk reels, 
whom she called the “Lords and Ladies Flossy.” 
Altogether there were between twenty and thirty 
personages in the workbox community, and the 
adventures they had, the elegance and luxury in 
which they lived, the wonderful stories they told 
each other, would fill more pages than I have time 
to write, or than you, kind little girls that you are, 
would have patience to read. I must hasten on to 
tell you how it came to pass that this queer fancy 
of Louisa’s was discovered by other people. 

One morning when she was sitting quietly, as 


12 


TELL ME A STORY. 


usual, beside her mother, a friend of Mrs. no, 

we need not tell her name, I should like you best 
just to think of her as Louisa’s mamma — well then, 
a friend of Louisa’s mamma’s came to call. She was 
a lady who lived in the country several miles away 
from Smokytown, but she was very fond of Louisa’s 
mamma, and whenever she had to come to Smoky- 
town to shop, or anything of that kind, perhaps to 
take her little girl (for she too had a little girl as 
you shall hear) to the dentist’s, she always came 
early to call on her friend. Louisa’s mamma 
jumped up at once, when the servant threw open 
the door and announced the lady by name, and then 
they kissed each other, and then Louisa’s mamma 
stooped down and kissed the lady’s little girl who 
was standing beside her, but Louisa sat so quietly 
at her corner of the table, that for a minute or two 
no one noticed her. She was just thinking if she 
could manage to creep down under the table and 
slip away out of the room without being seen, when 
her mamma called her. 

“Louisa, my dear,” she said, “come here and 
speak to Mrs. Gordon and to Frances. You remem- 
ber Frances, don’t you, dear?” 

Louisa got down slowly off her chair and came 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


13 


to her mamma. She stood looking at Frances for a 
minute or two without speaking. 

“Don’t you remember Frances?” said her mamma 
again. 

“No,” said Louisa at last, “I don’t think I do.” 
Then she turned away as if she were going back 
to her place at the table. Her mamma looked 
vexed. 

“Poor little thing,” said Mrs. Gordon, “she is 
only rather shy. Frances, you must make friends 
with her.” 

“Louisa, I am not pleased with you,” said her 
mamma gravely, and then she went on talking to 
Mrs. Gordon. 

Frances followed Louisa to the table, where all 
the reels were arranged in order. There was a 
grand feast going on among them that da}^: one of 
the Chinese princesses was to be married to one 
of the Lords Flossy, and Louisa had been smarten- 
ing them up for the occasion. But she did not 
want to tell Frances about it. 

“I am only playing with mamma’s workbox 
things,” she said, looking up at Frances, and wish- 
ing she had not come. She had taken a dislike to 
Frances, and the reason was not a very nice one — 


14 


TELL ME A STORY. 


she was envious of her because she had such a 
pretty face and was very beautifully dressed. She 
had long curls of bright light hair, and large blue 
eyes, and she had a purple velvet coat trimmed with 
fur, and a sweet little bonnet with rosebuds in the 
cap, and Louisa’s mamma would never let her have 
rosebuds or any flowers in her bonnets. To Louisa’s 
eyes she looked almost as beautiful as a fairy prin- 
cess, but the thought vexed her. 

“Playing with your mamma’s workbox things,” 
said Frances, “how very funny! You poor little 
thing, have you got nothing else to play with?” 

She spoke as if she were several years older than 
Louisa, and this made Louisa still more vexed. 

“Yes,” she answered, “of course I have got other 
things, but I like these. You can’t understand.” 

Frances smiled. “ How funny you are ! ” she said 
again, “but never mind. Let us talk of something 
nice. Perhaps you would like to hear what things 
I have got to play with. I have a room all for 
myself, filled with toys. I have got a large doll- 
house, as tall as myself, with eight rooms; and I 
have sixteen dolls of different kinds. They were 
mostly birthday presents. But I am getting too 
big to care for them now. My birthday was last 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


15 


week. What do you think papa gave me? Some- 
thing so beautiful that I had wanted for such a long 
time. I don’t think you could guess.” 

In spite of herself Louisa was becoming inter- 
ested. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” she said; “per- 
haps it was a book full of stories.” 

Frances shook her head. “O no,” she answered, 
“it wasn’t. That would be nothing particular, and 
my present was something particular, very particular 
indeed. Well, you can’t guess, so I’ll tell you — 
it was a Princess’s dress; a real dress you know; a 
dress that I can put on and wear.” 

“A Princess’s dress!” repeated Louisa, opening 
her eyes. 

“Yes, to be sure,” said Frances. “I call it a 
Princess’s dress, because it is copied from one the 
Princess Fair Star wore at the pantomime last 
Christmas. It was there I saw it, and I have 
teased papa ever since till he got it for me. And 
it is so beautiful; quite beautiful enough for a 
queen for that matter. My papa often calls me his 
queen, sometimes he says his golden-haired queen. 
Does yours ? ” 

“No,” said Louisa sadly; “my papa sometimes 
calls me his pet, and sometimes he calls me ‘old 


16 


TELL ME A STOEY. 


woman, ’ but he never says I am his queen. I sup- 
pose I am not pretty enough.” 

“I don’t know,” said Frances, consideringly, 
“I don’t think you’re ugly exactly. Perhaps if 
you asked your papa to get you a Princess’s 
dress ” — 

“He wouldn’t,” said Louisa decidedly, “I know 
he wouldn’t. It would not be the least use asking 
him. Tell me more about yours — what is it like, 
and does it make you feel like a real princess when 
you have it on ? ” 

“I suppose it makes me look like one,” replied 
Frances complacently, “and as for feeling, why one 
can always fancy, you know.” 

“Fancying isn’t enough,” said Louisa. “I know 
I should dreadfully like to he a princess or a queen. 
It is the first thing I would ask a fairy. Perhaps 
you don’t wish it so much because every one pets 
you so, and thinks you so pretty. Has your dress 
got silver and gold on it?” 

“O yes, at least it has silver — silver spots,” 
began Frances eagerly, but just then her mamma 
turned to tell her that they must go. “ The little 
people have made friends very quickly after all, you 
see,” she said to Louisa’s mamma. “Some day you 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


17 


must really bring Louisa to see Frances — it has 
been such an old promise.” 

“It is not often I can leave home for a whole 
day,” said Louisa’s mamma; “and then, dear, you 
must remember not having a carriage makes a 
difference.” 

Louisa’s cheeks grew red. She felt very vexed 
with her mamma for telling Mrs. Gordon they had 
no carriage, but of course she did not venture to 
say anything, so no one noticed her. She was not 
sorry when Mrs. Gordon and Frances said good-bye 
and went away. 

That same evening, a little before bed-time, 
Louisa happened to be again in the drawing-room 
alone with her mother. 

“Louisa,” said her mother, who was sewing at 
the table, “you did not leave my workbox as neat 
as usual this morning. I suppose it was because 
you were interrupted by Frances Gordon. Come 
here, dear, and take the box and put it on a chair 
near the fire and arrange it rightly. Here is a 
whole collection of reels rolling about. Put them 
all in their places.” 

Louisa did as she was told, but without speaking. 
Indeed she had been very silent all day, but her 


18 


TELL MB A STORY. 


mother had been occupied with other things and 
had not noticed her particularly. Louisa quietly 
put the reels into their places, giving the most com- 
fortable corners to her favourites as usual, and 
huddling some of the others together rather uncere- 
moniously. Then she sat down on the hearth-rug, 
and began to think of what Frances Gordon had 
said to her, and to wish all sorts of not very wise 
things. She felt herself at last growing drowsy, so 
she leant her little round head on the chair beside 
her, and was almost asleep, when she heard her 
mother say, “ Louisa, my dear, you are getting 
sleepy, you must really go to bed.” 

“Yes, mamma,” she said, or intended to say, but 
the words sounded faint and dreamlike, and before 
they were fully pronounced she was fairly asleep! 

She remembered nothing more for what seemed a 
very long time — -then to her surprise she found 
herself already undressed and in her own little bed ! 
“Nurse must have carried me upstairs and undressed 
me,” she thought, and she opened her eyes very 
wide to see if it was still the middle of the night. 
No, surely it could not be; the room was quite 
light, yet where was the light coming from? It 
was not coming in at the window — there was no 


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All the White Countekpanb or her Little Bed was cov- 
ered WITH Tiny Figures of Various Sizes. They were hop- 
ping, AND DANCING, AND TWIRLING THEMSELVES ABOUT IN EVERY 

Imaginable Way. — p. 19. 



THE KEEL FAIRIES. 


19 


window to be seen; the curtains were drawn across, 
and no tiny chink even was visible; there was no 
lamp or candle in the room, — the light was simply 
there, but where it came from Louisa could not 
discover. She got tired of wondering about it at 
last, and was composing herself to sleep again, when 
suddenly a small but Very clear voice called her by 
name. “Louisa, Louisa,” it said. She did not feel 
at all frightened. She half raised herself in bed 
and exclaimed, “Who is speaking to me? what do 
you want? ” 

“Louisa, Louisa,” the voice repeated, “would you 
like to be a queen ? ” 

“Very much indeed, thank you,” Louisa replied 
promptly. 

“Then rub your eyes and look about you,” said 
the voice. 

Louisa rubbed her eyes and looked about her to 
some purpose, for what do you think she saw ? All 
the white counterpane of her little bed was covered 
with tiny figures, of various sizes, from one inch to 
three ^or four in height. They were hopping, and 
dancing, and twirling themselves about in every 
imaginable way, like nothing anybody ever saw 
before, or since, or ever will again. 


20 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“ Fairies ! ” thought Louisa at once, and without 
any feeling of overwhelming surprise, for, like most 
children, she had always been hoping, and indeed 
half expecting, that some day an adventure of this 
kind would fall to her share. 

“Yes, fairies,” said the same voice as before, 
which seemed to hear her thoughts as distinctly as 
if she had spoken them ; “ but what kind of fairies ? 
Look at us again, Louisa.” 

Louisa opened her eyes wider and stared harder. 
There were all kinds of fairies, gentlemen and 
ladies, little and big; but as she looked she saw 
that every one of them, without exception, wore a 
curious, sort of round stiff jacket, more like a little 
barrel than anything else. It gave them a queer 
high-shouldered look, very like the little figures of 
Noah and his family in toy arks; but as Louisa was 
staring at them the mystery was explained. A big, 
rather clumsy-looking gentleman fairy, stopped for 
a moment in his gymnastics, and Louisa read on the 
ledge round his shoulders the familiar words “ Clark 
and Co.’s best six-cord, extra quality. No. 12.” 

“I know,” she cried, clapping her hands; “you’re 
mamma’s reels ! ” 

At these words a sensation ran through the com- 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


21 


pany; they all stood stock-still, and Louisa began 
to feel a little afraid. 

“She says,” exclaimed the voice, “she says we're 
her mammals reels ! ” 

There fell a dead silence; Louisa expected to be 
sentenced to undergo capital punishment on the 
spot. “It’s too bad,” she said to herself, “it’s too 
bad; they asked me to guess who they were.” 

“She says,” continued the voice, “she says ‘it’s 
too bad.’ What is too bad? My friends, let the 
deputation stand forward.” 

Instantly about a dozen fairies separated them- 
selves from the others and advanced, slowly march- 
ing two and two up the counterpane, till having 
made their way across the various hills and valley's 
formed by Louisa’s little figure under the bed- 
clothes, they drew up just in front of her nose. 
Foremost of the deputation she recognised, the one 
clad in pink satin, the other in glistening white, 
her two favourites the Princesses Blanche and Rose. 

“Beautiful Louisa,” said the deputation, all 
speaking at once, “we have come to ask you to be 
our queen.” 

“Thank you,” said Louisa, not knowing what 
else to say. 


22 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“ She consents ! ” exclaimed the deputation, “ let 
the royal chariot appear.” 

Thereupon there suddenly started up in the mid- 
dle of the bed, as large as life, but no larger, her 
mamma’s big workbox! The fairies all clambered 
on to it with a rush, and hung upon it in every 
direction, like bees on a hive, or firemen on a fire- 
engine; and no sooner were they all mounted than 
the workbox slowly glided along till it was close to 
Louisa’s face. 

“Will your majesty please to get in?” said one 
of the fairies, “Clarke’s No. 12, extra quality,” I 
think it was. 

“ How can I ? ” said Louisa piteously, “ how can I ? 
I’m far too big. How can I get into a workbox?” 

“Please to rub your eyes and try,” said the big 
fairy, “right foot foremost, if you please.” 

Louisa rubbed her eyes, and pulling her right foot 
out from under the clothes, stepped on to the work- 
box. 

To her surprise, or rather not to her surprise, 
everything seemed to come quite naturally, she 
found that she was not at all too big, and she settled 
herself in the place the fairies had kept for her, the 
nice little division lined with satin, in which her 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


23 


mamma’s thimble and emery cushion always lay. 
It was pretty comfortable, only rather hard, but 
Louisa had no time to think about that, for no 
sooner was she seated than off flew the workbox, 
that is to say the royal chariot, away, away, Louisa 
knew not where, and felt too giddy to try to think. 
It stopped at last as suddenly as it had started, and 
quick as thought all the fairies jumped down. 
Louisa followed them more deliberately. She found 
herself in a great shining hall, the walls seemed to 
be of looking-glass, but when she observed them 
more closely she found they were made of innumer- 
able needles, all fastened together in some wonder- 
ful fairy fashion, which she had not time to 
examine, for just then the Chinese princesses 
approached her, carrying between them a glistening 
dress, which they begged her to put on. They 
were quite as tall as she by-the-by, so she allowed 
them to dress her, and then examined herself with 
great satisfaction in the looking-glass walls. The 
dress was lovely, of that there was no doubt; it 
was just such a one, curiously enough, as Frances 
Gordon had described; the only drawback was her 
short hair, which certainly did not add to her regal 
appearance. 


24 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“It won’t show so much when your majesty has 
the crown on,” said the Chinese princesses, answer- 
ing as before to Louisa’s unspoken thoughts. Then 
some gentlemen fairies appeared with the crown, 
which fitted exactly, only it felt rather heavy. 
But it would never do for a queen to complain, 
even in thought, of so trifling a matter, so Avith 
great dignity Louisa ascended the throne which 
stood at one end of the hall, and sat down upon 
it to see what would come next. 

The Fairies came next. One after the other, by 
dozens, and scores, and hundreds, they passed 
before her, each as he passed making the humblest 
of obeisances, as if to the great Mogul himself. 
It was very fine indeed, but after a while Louisa 
began to get rather tired of it, and though the 
throne was very grand to look at, it too felt rather 
hard, and the crown grew decidedly heavier. 

“I think I’d like to come down for a little,” 
she said to some of the ladies and gentlemen beside 
her, but they took no notice. “I’d like to get 
down for a little and to take off my crown — it’s 
hurting my head, and this spangly dress is so 
cold,” she continued. Still the fairies took no 
notice. 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


25 


“Don’t you hear what I say?” she exclaimed 
again, getting angry; “what’s the use of being a 
queen if you won’t answer me?” 

Then at last some of the fairies standing beside 
the throne appeared to hear what she was saying. 

“Her majesty wishes to take a little exercise,” 
said “Clarke’s No. 12,” and immediately the words 
were repeated in a sort of confusing buzz all round 
the hall. “Her majesty wishes to take a little 
exercise” — “her majesty wishes to take a little 
exercise,” till Louisa could have shaken them all 
heartily, she felt so provoked. Then suddenly 
the throne began to squeak and grunt (Louisa 
thought it was going to talk about her taking 
exercise next), and after it had given vent to all 
manner of unearthly sounds it jerked itself up, 
first on one side and then on the other, like a 
very rheumatic old woman, and at last slowly 
moved away. None of the fairies were pushing 
it, that was plain; and at first Louisa was too 
much occupied in wondering what made it move, 
to find fault with the mode of exercise permitted 
to her. The throne rolled slowly along, all round 
the hall, and wherever it appeared a crowd of 
fairies scuttled away, all chattering the same words 


26 


TELL ME A STOKY. 


— ^“Her majesty is taking a little exercise,” till 
at last, with renewed jerks and grunts and groans, 
her queer conveyance settled itself again in its old 
place. As soon as it was still, Louisa tried to 
get down, but no sooner did she put one foot on 
the ground than a crowd of fairies respectfully 
lifted it up again on to the footstool. This hap- 
pened two or three times, till Louisa’s patience 
was again exhausted. 

“Get out of my way,” she exclaimed, “you 
horrid little things, get out of my way; I want 
to get down and run about.” 

But the fairies took no notice of what she said, 
till for the third time she repeated it. Then 
they all spoke at once. 

“ Her majesty wants to take a little more exercise,” 
they buzzed in all directions, till Louisa was so 
completely out of patience that she burst into tears. 

“I won’t stay to be your queen,” she said, “it’s 
not nice at all. I want to go home to my mamma. 
I want to go home to my mamma. I want to go 
home to my mamma.” 

“We don’t know what mammas are,” said the 
fairies. “We haven’t anything of that kind here.” 

“That’s a story,” said Louisa. “There — are 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


27 


mammas here. I’ve seen several. There’s Mrs. 
Brown, and there’s Lady Floss, and there’s — no, 
the Chinese princesses haven’t a mamma. But you 
see there are two among my mamma’s own reels 
in her workb — .” 

But before she could finish the word the fairies 
all set up a terrific shout. “The word, the word,” 
they cried, “the word that no one must mention 
here. Hush! hush! hush!” 

They all turned upon Louisa as if they were 
going to tear her to pieces. In her terror she 
uttered a piercing scream, and — woke. 

She wasn’t in bed; where was she? Could she 
be in the workbox? Wherever she was it was 
quite dark and cold, and something was pressing 
against her head, and her legs were aching. Sud- 
denly there came a flash of light. Some one had 
opened the door, and the light from the hall 
streamed in. The some one was Louisa’s mamma. 

“Who is in here? Did I hear some one calling 
out?” she exclaimed anxiously. 

Louisa was slowly recovering her wits. “It was 
me, mamma,” she answered; “I didn’t know where 
I was, and I was so frightened and I am so cold. 
Oh mamma! ” 


28 


TELL ME A STORY. 


A flood of tears choked her. 

“You poor child,” exclaimed her mamma, hurry- 
ing back to the hall to fetch a lamp, as she spoke, 
“why, you have fallen asleep on the hearthrug, and 
the fire’s out; and my workbox — what is it doing 
here? Were you using it for a pillow?” 

“No,” said Louisa, eyeing the workbox suspi- 
ciously, “it was on the chair, and the corner of 
it has hurt my head, mamma; it was pressing 
against it.” 

Her mamma lifted the box on to the table. 

“Are they all in there, mamma?” whispered 
Louisa, timidly. 

“ All in where ? All who ? What are you 
speaking about, my dear?” 

“The fairies — the reels I mean,” replied Louisa. 

“My dear, you are dreaming still,” said her 
mamma, laughing, but seeing that Louisa looked 
dissatisfied, “never mind, you shall tell me your 
dreams to-morrow. But just now you must really 
go to bed. It is nine o’clock — you have been 
two hours asleep. I went out of the room in a 
hurry, taking the lamp with me because it was not 
burning rightly, and then I heard baby crying — 
he is very cross to-night — and both nurse and I 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


29 


forgot about you. Now go, dear, and get well 
warmed at the nursery fire before you go to bed.” 

Louisa trotted off. She had no more dreams 
that night, but when she woke the next morning, 
her poor little legs were still aching. She had 
caught cold the night before, there was no doubt, 
so her mamma, taking some blame to herself for 
her having fallen asleep on the floor, was par- 
ticularly kind and indulgent to her. She brought 
her down to the drawing-room wrapped in a 
shawl, and established her comfortably in an 
arm-chair. 

“What will you have to play with?” she asked. 
“Would you like my workbox?” 

“I don’t know,” said Louisa, doubtfully. 
“Mamma,” she continued, after a moment’s si- 
lence, “can queens never do what they like?” 

“Very often they can’t,” replied her mamma. 
“What makes you ask?” 

“I dreamt I was a queen,” said Louisa. 

“Did you? What country were you queen of?” 

“I was queen of the reel fairies,” replied the 
child gravely. Her mother looked mystified. 

“Tell me what you mean, dear,” she said. 


“Tell me all about it.” 


30 


TELL ME A STORY. 


So bit by bit Louisa explained the whole, and 
her mamma had for once a peep into that strange, 
fantastic, mysterious world, which we call a child’s 
imagination. She had a glimpse of something 
else too. She saw that her little girl was in 
danger of getting to live too much alone, was in 
need of sympathy and companionship. 

“I think it was what Frances Gordon said that 
made me dream about being a queen,” she said. 

“And do you still wish you were a queen?” 
said her mamma. 

“No,” said Louisa. 

“A princess then?” 

“No,” she replied again. “But, mamma” — 

“Well, dear?” 

“I do wish sometimes that I was pretty, and 
that — that — I don’t know how to say it — that 
people made a fuss about me sometimes.” 

Her mamma looked a little grave and a little 
sad; but still she smiled. She could not be angry 
— thought Louisa. 

“Is it naughty, mamma?” she whispered. 

“Naughty? No, dear; it is a wish most little 
girls have, I fancy — and big ones too. But some 
day you will understand how it might grow into 


THE REEL FAIRIES. 


31 


a wrong feeling, and how on the other side a little 
of it may be useful to help good feelings. And 
till you understand better, dear, doesn’t it make 
you happy to know that to me you could not be 
dearer if you were the most beautiful little prin- 
cess in the world.” 

“As beautiful as Princess Fair Star, mamma?” 

“Yes, or any other princess you can think of. 
I would rather have my little mouse of a girl than 
any of them.” 

Louisa nestled closer to her mamma with great 
satisfaction. “I like 3'ou to call me your mouse, 
mamma; and do you know I almost think I like 
having a cold.” 

Her mother laughed. “Am I making a little 
fuss about you? Is that what you like?” 

Louisa laughed too. 

“Do you think I should leave off playing with 
the reels, and making stories about them, mamma? 
Is it silly?” 

“No, dear, not if it amuses you,” said her 
mother. 

But though Louisa did not leave off playing 
with the reels altogether, she gradually came to 
find that she preferred other amusements. Her 


32 


TELL ME A STORY. 


mother taught her several pretty kinds of work, 
and read aloud stories to her more often than 
formerly. And, somehow, Louisa never again 
cared quite as much for her old friends. She 
thought the Chinese princesses had grown rather 
“stuck-up” and affected, and she could not get 
over a strong suspicion that “Clark’s No. 12” 
was very ready to be impertinent, if he could 
ever again get a chance. 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


“ Say not good-night — hut, in some brighter clime, 

Bid me good-morning ! ” 

When I was a little girl I was called Meg. 
I do not mean to say that I have got a different 
name now that I am big, but my name is med 
differently. I am now called Margaret, or some- 
times Madge, but never Meg. Indeed I do not 
wish ever to be called Meg, for a reason you will 
quite understand when you have heard my story. 
But perhaps I am wrong to call it a “story” at 
all, so I had better say at the beginning that 
what I have to tell you is only a sort of remem- 
brance of something that happened to me when I 
was very little — of some one I loved more dearly, 
I think, than I can ever love any one again. And 
I fancy perhaps other little girls will like to 
hear it. 

Well then, to begin again — long ago I used 
to be called Meg, and the person who first called 
me so was my sister Winny, who was not quite 


33 


34 


TELL ME A STORY. 


two years older than I. There were four of us 
then — four little sisters — Winny, and I, and 
Dolly, and Blanche, baby Blanche we used to 
call her. We lived in the country in a pretty 
house, which we were very fond of, particularly 
in the summer time, when the flowers were all 
out. Winny loved flowers more dearly than any 
one I ever knew, and she taught me to love 
them too. I never see one now without thinking 
of her and the things she used to say about 
them. 1 can see now, now that I am so much 
older, that Winny must have been a very clever 
little girl in some ways, not so much in learning 
lessons as in thinking things to herself, and 
understanding feelings and thoughts that children 
do not generally care about at all. She was very 
pretty too, I can remember her face so well. She 
had blue eyes and very long black eyelashes — 
our mamma used to teaze her sometimes, and say 
that she had what Irish people call “blue eyes, 
put in with dirty fingers ” — and pretty rosy 
cheeks, and a very white forehead. And her face 
always had a bright dancing look that I can 
remember best of all. 

We learnt lessons together, and we slept to- 


GOOD-NIGHT, WIN NY. 


35 


gether in two little beds side by side, and we 
did everything together, from eating our break- 
fast to dressing our dolls — and when one was 
away the other seemed only half alive. All our 
frocks and hats and jackets were exactly the same, 
and except that VVinny was taller than I, we 
should never have known which was which of 
our things. I am sure Winny was a very good 
little girl, but when I try to remember all about 
her exactly, what seems to come back most to me 
is her being always so happy. She did not need 
to think much about being good and not naughty; 
everything seemed to come rightly to her of 
itself. She thought the world was a very pretty, 
nice place; and she loved all her friends, and 
she loved God most of all for giving them to 
her. She used to say she was sure Heaven would 
be a very happy place too, only she did so hope 
there would be plenty of flowers there, and she 
was disappointed because mamma said it did not 
tell in the Bible what kinds of flowers there 
would be. Almost the only thing which made 
her unhappy was about there being so many 
very poor people in the world. She used to talk 
about it very often and wonder why it was, and 


36 


TELL ME A STORY. 


when she was very, very little, she cried because 
nurse would not let her give away her best velvet 
jacket to a poor little girl she saw on the road. 

But though Winny was so sweet, and though 
we loved each other so, sometimes we did quar- 
rel. Now and then it was quite little quarrels 
which were over directly, but once we had a 
bigger quarrel. Even now I do not like to re- 
member it; and oh! how I do wish I could 
make other boys and girls feel as I do about 
quarrelling. Even little tiny squabbles seem to 
me to be sorrowful things, and then they so often 
grow into bigger ones. It was generally mostly 
my fault. I was peevish and cross sometimes, 
and Winny was never worse than just hasty and 
quick for a moment. She was always ready to 
make friends again, “to kiss ourselves to make 
the quarrel go away,” as our little sister Dolly 
used to say, almost before she could speak. And 
sometimes I was silly, and then it was right for 
Winny to find fault with me. My manners used 
occasionally to trouble her, for she was very 
particular about such things. One day I remem- 
ber she was very vexed with me for something I 
said to a gentleman who was dining with our 


' GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


37 


papa and mamma. He was a nice kind gentle- 
man, and we liked him, only we did not think 
him pretty. Winny and I had fixed together 
that we did not think him prett}^ onl}- of course 
Winny never thought I would be so silly as to 
tell him so. W e came down to dessert that 
evening — Winny sat beside papa, and I sat 
between Mr. Merton and mamma, and after I 
had sat quite still, looking at him without speak- 
ing, I suddenly said, — I can’t think what made 
me — “ Mr. Merton, I don’t think you are at all 
pretty. Your hair goes straight down, and up 
again all of a sudden at the end, just like our 
old drake’s tail.” 

Mr. Merton laughed very much, and papa 
laughed, and mamma did too, though not so 
much. But Winny did not laugh at all. Her 
face got red, and she would not eat her raisins, 
but asked if she might keep them for Dolly, and 
she seemed quite unhappy. And when we had 
said good-night, and had gone upstairs, I could 
see how vexed she was. She was so vexed that 
she even gave me a little shake. “Meg,” she 
said, “ I am so ashamed of you. I am really. 
How could you be so rude?” 


38 


TELL ME A STORY. 


I began to cry, and I said I did not mean to 
be rude; and I promised that I would never say 
things like that again; and then Winny forgave 
me; but I never forgot it. And once I remember, 
too, that she was vexed with me because I would 
not speak to a little girl who came to pay a 
visit to her grandfather, who lived at our grand- 
father’s lodge. Winny stopped to say good- 
morning to her, and to ask her if her friends at 
home were quite well; and the little girl curtseyed 
and looked so pleased. But I walked on, and 
when Winny called to me to stop I would not; 
and then, when she asked me what was the 
matter, I said I did not think we needed to 
speak to the little girl, she was quite a common 
child, and Ave were ladies. Winny was vexed 
with me then; she was too vexed to give me a 
little shake even. She did not speak for a 
minute, and then she said, very sadly, “ Meg, I 
am sorry you don’t know better than that what 
being a lady means.” 

I do know better now, I hope; but was it not 
strange that Winny always seemed to know better 
about these things? It came of itself to her, I 
think, because her heart was so kind and happy. 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


39 


Winny was very fond of listening to stories, 
and of making them up and telling them to me; 
but she was not very fond of reading to herself. 
She liked writing best, and I liked reading. We 
used to say that when we were big girls, Winny 
should write all mamma’s letters for her, and 1 
should read aloud to her when she was tired. 
How little we thought that time would never 
come! We were always talking about what we 
should do when we were big; but sometimes 
when we had been talking a long time, Winny 
would stop suddenly, and say, “ Meg, growing 
big seems a dreadfully long way off. It almost 
tires me to think of it. What a great, great 
deal we shall have to learn before then, Meg!” 
I wonder what gave her that feeling. 

Shall I tell you now about the worst quarrel 
we ever had? It Avas about Winny ’s best doll. 
The doll’s name was “Poupde.” Of course I 
know noAv that that is the French for all dolls; 
but we Avere so little then we did not understand, 
and Avhen our aunt’s French maid told us that 
“poup^e” was the Avord for doll, we thought it 
a very pretty name, and somehow the doll was 
always called by it. Grandfather had given 


40 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“Poup^e” to Winny — I think he brought it 
from London for her — and I cannot tell you how 
proud she was of it. She did not play with it 
every day, only on holidays and treat-days ; but 
every day she used to peep at “ Poupde ” in the 
drawer where she lay, and kiss her, and say how 
pretty she looked. One afternoon Winny was 
going out somewhere — I don’t remember exactly 
where; I dare say it was a drive with mamma — ■ 
and I was not to go, and I was crying; and just 
as Winny was running downstairs all ready 
dressed to go, she came back and whispered to 
me, “Meg, dear, don’t cry. It takes away all my 
pleasure to see you. Will you leave off crjdng 
and look happy if I let you have ‘Poup^e ’ to play 
with while I am out?” 

I wiped away m3" tears in a minute, I was so 
pleased. Winny ran to “Poup^e’s” drawer and 
got her out, and brought her to me. She kissed 
her as she put her into my arms, and she said to 
her, “My darling ‘Poupde,’ you are going to spend 
the afternoon with your aunt. You must be a 
very good little girl, and do exactly what she tells 
you.” 

And then Winny said to me, “You will be very 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


41 


careful of her, won’t you, Meg?” and I promised, 
of course, that I would. 

I did mean to be careful, and I really was; hut 
for all that a sad accident happened. I had been 
very happy with “ Poup^e ” all the afternoon, and I 
had made her a new apron with a piece of muslin 
nurse gave me, and some ribbon, which did nicely 
for bows; and I was carrying her along the passage 
to show nurse how pretty the apron looked, when 
the housemaid, who was coming along with a 
trayful of clean clothes from the wash in her 
arms, knocked against me, and “ Poupde ” was 
thrown down; and, terrible to tell, her dear, sweet 
little right foot was broken. I cannot tell you 
how sorry I was, and nurse was sorry too, and so 
was Jane; but all the sorrow would not mend 
the foot. I was sitting on the nursery floor, with 
“ Poup^e ” in my lap, crying over her, as miserable 
as could be, when Winny rushed in, laden with 
parcels, in the highest spirits. 

“ O ! I have had such a nice drive, and I have 
brought some buns and sponge-cakes for tea, and 
a toy donkey for Blanche. And has Poupde 
been good?” she exclaimed. But just then she 
caught sight of my face. “What is the matter. 


42 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Meg? What have you done to my darling, beau- 
tiful Poupde? O Meg, Meg, you surely haven’t 
broken her?” 

I was crying so I could hardly speak. 

“OWinny!” I said, “I am so sorry.” 

But Winny was too vexed to care just at first 
for anything I could say. “You naughty, naughty, 
unkind Meg,” she said, “I do believe you did it 
on purpose.” 

I could not bear that. I thought it very hard 
indeed that she should say so, when any one 
could see how miserable I was. I did not answer 
her; I ran out of the nursery, and though Winny 
called to me to come back (for the moment she 
had said those words she was sorry for them), I 
would not listen to her. Nurse fetched me back 
soon, however, for it was tea-time, but I would 
not speak to Winny. We never had such a 
miserable tea; there we sat, two red-eyed, unhappy 
little girls, looking as if we did not love each 
other a bit. If mamma had come up to the 
nursery she would have put it all right — she did 
put Poupde’s foot right the very next day, she 
mended it so nicely with diamond cement, that 
the place hardly showed at all — but she was 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


43 


busy that evening, and did not happen to come 
up. So bed-time came, and still we had not 
made friends, though I heard Winny crying when 
she was saying her prayers. After we were in 
bed, and nurse had gone away, Winny whispered 
to me, “Meg, won’t you forgive me for saying 
that unkind thing? Won’t you kiss me and say 
good-night, Winny? ” 

A minute before, I had been feeling as sorrj'- 
as could be, but when Winny spoke to me, a 
most hard, horrid, unkind feeling seemed to come 
back into my heart, and I would not answer. I 
breathed as if I were asleep, pretending not to 
hear. I think Winny thought I was asleep, for 
she did not speak again. I heard her crying 
softly, and then after a while I heard by her 
breathing that she had really gone to sleep. But 
I couldn’t. I lay awake a long time, I thought 
it was hours and hours, and I tossed and turned, 
but I couldnH go to sleep. I listened but I could 
not hear Winny breathing — I put my hand out of 
my cot, and stretched across to hers to feel for 
her; she seemed to be lying quite still. Then a 
dreadful feeling came into my mind — suppose 
Winny were dead, and that I had refused to make 


44 


TELL ME A STORY. 


friends and say good-nighti I must have got 
fanciful with lying awake, I suppose, and you 
know I was only a very little girl. I could not 
bear it — I stretched myself across to Winny and 
put my arms round her. 

“Winny! Winny!” I said, “wake up, Winny, 
and kiss me, and let us say good-night.” 

Winny woke up almost immediately, and she 
seemed to understand at once. 

“Poor little Meg,” she said, “poor little Meg. 
We will never be unkind to each other again — 
never. Good-night, dear Meg.” 

“Good-night, Winny,” I said. And just as I 
was falling asleep I whispered to her — “I will 
never let you go to sleep again, Winm^, without 
saying good-night.” And I never did, never 
except once. 

I could tell you ever so many other things about 
Winny, but I dare say you would be tired, for, of 
course, they cannot be so interesting to any other 
little girls as to me. But I think you will wish 
to hear about our last good-night. 

Have I told you about our aunts at all? We 
had two aunties we were very fond of. They 
were young and merry and so kind to us, and 


F- 



“ Good-night, Winny,” 


I SAID.— p. 44. 





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GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


45 


there was nothing we liked so much as going to 
stay with them, for their home — our grandfather’s 

— was not far away. We generally all went there 
to spend Christmas, but one year something, I 
forget what, had prevented this, so to make up 
for it we were promised to spend Easter with 
them. We did so look forward to it — we were 
to go by ourselves, just like young ladies going 
to pay a visit, and we were to stay from Saturday 
till Easter Monday or Tuesday. 

On the Saturday morning we woke up so early 

— hours before it was time to be dressed — we 
were so excited about our visit. But somehow 
Winny did not seem quite as happy about it as 
I wanted her to be. I asked her what made her 
dull, and she said it was because she did not like 
leaving papa and mamma, and Dolly and Blanche, 
not even for two or three days. And when we 
went into mamma’s room to say good-morning as 
usual, Winny said so to her too. Mamma laughed 
at her a little, and said she was a great baby 
after all; and Winny smiled, but still she seemed 
dull, and I shall never forget what a long, long 
kiss she gave mamma that morning, as if she 
could not bear to let go of her. 


46 


TELL ME A STORY. 


When we went to the nursery for breakfast, 
baby Blanche was crying very much, and nurse 
said she was very cross. She did not think she 
was quite well, and we must be good and quiet. 
After breakfast, when mamma came to see baby, 
she seemed anxious about her, but baby w^ent to 
sleep before long quite comfortably, and then nurse 
said she would be better when she awoke; it was 
probably just a little cold. And very soon the 
pony carriage was ready for Winny and me, and 
we kissed them all and set off on our visit. I 
was in high spirits, but as we drove away I saw 
that Winny was actually crying a little, and she 
did not often cry. 

When we got to our aunties’, however, she grew 
quite happy again. We were very happy indeed 
on Sunday, only Winny kept saying how glad 
she would be to see them all at home again on 
Monday or Tuesday. But on Monday morning 
there came a letter, which made our aunties look 
grave. They did not tell us about it till Winny 
asked if we were to go home “to-day,” and then 
they told us that perhaps we could not go home 
for several days — not for two or three weeks 
even, for poor baby Blanche was very ill, and it 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


47 


was a sort of illness we might catch from her if 
we were with her. 

“ And that would only add to your poor mamma’s 
trouble,” said our aunties; “so you see, dears, it 
is much the best for you to stay here.” 

I did not mind at all; indeed I was pleased. 
I was sorry about baby, but not very, for I thought 
she would soon be better. But Winny looked 
very sad. 

“Aunty,” she said, “you don’t think poor baby 
will die^ do you?” 

“No, dear; I hope she will soon be better,” 
said aunty, and then Winny looked happier. 

“Meg,” she whispered to me, “we must be sure 
to remember about poor baby being ill when 
we say our prayers.” And we fixed that we 
would. 

After that we were very happy for two or three 
weeks. Sometimes we were sorry about baby and 
Dolly, for baby was very ill we were told, and 
Dolly had caught the fever too. But after a while 
news came that they were both better, and we 
began to look forward to seeing papa and mamma 
and them again. We used to write little letters 
to them all at home, and that was great fun; and 


48 


TELL ME A STORY. 


we used to go such nice walks. The fields and 
lanes were full of daffodils, and soon the primroses 
came and the violets, and Winny was always 
gathering them and making wreaths and nosegays. 
It was a very happy time, and it all comes back 
into my mind dreadfully^ when I see the spring 
flowers, especially the primroses, every year. 

One day we had had a particularly nice walk, 
and when we came in Winny seemed so full of 
spirits that she hardly knew what to do with 
herself. We had a regular romp. In our romp- 
ing, by accident, Winny knocked me down, for 
she was very strong, and I hurt my thumb. I 
was often silly about being hurt even a little, and 
I began to cry. Then Winny was so sorry; she 
kissed me and petted me, and gave me all her 
primrose wreaths and nosegays, so I soon left off 
crying. But somehow Winny ’s high spirits had 
gone away. She shivered a little and went close 
to the fire to get warm, and soon she said she was 
tired, and we both went to bed. I remember that 
night so well. Winny did not seem sleepy when 
she was in bed, and I wasn’t either. She talked 
to me a great deal, and so nicely. It was not 
about when we should he big girls; it was about 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


49 


now things; about not being cross ever, and help- 
ing mamma, and about how pretty the flowers had 
looked, and how kind every one was to us, and 
how kind God must be to make every one so, and 
just at the last, as she was falling asleep, she 
said, “I do wonder so if there are primroses in 
heaven?” and then she fell asleep, and so did I. 

When I woke in the morning, I heard voices 
talking beside me. It was one of our aunties. 
She was standing beside Winny, speaking to her. 
When she looked round and saw that I was 
awake, she said to me in a kind but rather a 
strange voice, “Meg, dear, put on your dressing- 
gown and run down to my room to be dressed. 
W inny has a headache, and I think she had 
better not get up to breakfast.” 

I got up immediately and put on my slippers, 
and I was running out of the room when I 
thought of something and ran back. I put 
Winny ’s slippers neatly beside her crib, and I 
said to her, “I have put them ready for you when 
you get up, Winny.” I wanted to do something 
for her you see, because I was so sorry about her 
headache. She did not speak, but she looked at 
me with such a look in her eyes. Then she said, 


50 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“Kiss me, Meg, dear little Meg,” and I was just 
going to kiss her when she suddenly seemed to 
remember, and she drew back. “No, dear, you 
mustn’t,” she said; “aunty would say it was 
better not, because I’m not well.” 

“Could I catch your headache, Winny?” I said, 
“or is it a cold you’ve got? You are not very 
ill, Winny?” 

She only smiled at me, and just then I heard 
aunty calling to me to be quick. Winny ’s little 
hand was hanging over the side of the bed. I 
took it, and kissed it — poor little hand, it felt 
so hot — “I may kiss your hand, mayn’t I?” I 
said, and then I ran away. 

All that day I was kept away from Winny, 
playing by myself in rooms we did not generally 
go into. Sometimes my aunties would come to 
the door for a minute and peep at me, and ask me 
what I would like to play with, but it was very 
dull. My aunties’ maid took me a little walk in 
the garden, and she put me to bed, but I cried 
myself to sleep because I had not said good-night 
to Winny. 

“ Oh how I wish I had never been cross to 
her!” I kept thinking; and if only I could make 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


51 


other children understand how dreadful that feel- 
ing was, I am sure, quite sure, they would never, 
never quarrel. 

The next day was just the same, playing alone, 
dinner alone, everything alone. I was so lonely. 
I never saw aunty till the evening, when it was 
nearly bed-time, and then she came to the room 
where I was, and I called out to her immediately 
to ask how Winny was. 

“I hope she will soon be better,” she said. 
“And, Meg, dear, it is your bed-time now.” 

The thought of going to bed again without 
Winny was too hard. I began to cry. 

“O aunty!” I said, “I do so want to say good- 
night to Winny. I always say good-night, and 
last night I couldn’t.” 

Aunty thought for a minute. She looked so 
sorry for me. Then she said, “I will see if I can 
manage it. Come after me, Meg.” She went up 
thi-ough a part of the house I did not know, and 
into a room where there was a closed door. She 
tapped at it without opening, and called out. 
“Meg has come to say good-night to you, through 
the door, Winny dear.” 

Then I heard Winny ’s voice say softly, “I am 


52 


TELL ME A STORY. 


SO glad;” and I called out quite loud, “Good- 
night, Winny,” but Winny answered — I could 
not hear her voice without listening close at the 
(ioor — “Not good-night now, Meg. It is good- 
bye^ dear Meg.” 

I looked up at aunty. It seemed to me her face 
had grown white, and the tears were in her eyes. 
Somehow, I felt a little afraid. 

“What does Winny mean, aunty?” I said in a 
whisper. 

“I don’t know, dear. Perhaps being ill makes 
her head confused,” she said. So I called out 
again, “Good-night, Winny,” and aunty led me 
away. 

But Winny was right. It was good-bye. The 
next morning when aunty’s maid was dressing 
me, I saw she was crying. 

“ What is the matter, Hortense ? ” I said. 
“Why are you unhappy? Is any one vexed with 
you?” 

But she only shook her head and would not 
speak. 

After I had had my breakfast, Hortense took 
me to my aunties’ sitting-room. And when she 
opened the door, to my delight there was mamma. 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


53 


sitting with both my aunties by the fire. I was 
so pleased, I gave quite a cry of joy, and jumped 
on to her knee. 

“Does Winny know you’ve come?” I cried, 
mamma.” 

But when I looked at her I saw that her face 
was very white and sad, and my poor aunties were 
crying. Still mamma smiled. 

“Poor Meg!” she said. 

“What is the matter? Why is everybody so 
strange to-day?” I said. 

Then mamma told me. “Meg, dear,” she said, 
“you must try to remember some of the things I 
have often told you about Heaven, what a happy 
place it is, with no being ill or tired, or any 
troubles. Meg, dear, Winny has gone there.” 

For a minute I did not seem to understand. I 
could not understand Winny ’s having gone without 
telling me. A sort of giddy feeling came over 
me, it was all so strange, and I put my head 
down on mamma’s shoulder, without speaking. 

“Meg, dear, do you understand?” she said. 

“She didn’t tell me she was going,” I said, 
“but, oh yes, I remember' she said good-bye last 
night. Did she go alone, mamma? Who came 


54 


TELL ME A STORY. 


for her? Did Jesus Something made me whis- 
per that. 

Mamma just said softly, “Yes.” 

“ Had she only her little pink dressing-gown 
on?” I asked next. “Wouldn’t she be cold? 
Mamma, dear, is it a long way off?” 

“Not to Aer,” she said. She was crying now. 

“Do you think if I set off now, this very min- 
ute, I could get up to her?” 

But when I said that, mamma clasped me tight. 

“Not that too,” she whispered. “Meg, Meg, 
don’t say that.” 

I was sorry for her crying, and I stroked her 
cheek, but still I wanted to go. 

“Heaven is such a nice place, mamma. Winny 
said so, only she wondered about the primroses. 
Why won’t you let me go, mamma?” And just 
then my eyes happened to fall on the little piece 
of black sticking-plaster that Winny had put on 
my thumb only two evenings before, when she had 
hurt it without meaning. “Mamma, mamma,” I 
cried, “I can't stay here without Winny.” 

It all seemed to come into my mind then what 
it would really be to be without her, and I cried 
and cried till my face ached with crying. I can’t 


GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY. 


55 


remember much of that day, nor of several days. 
I did not get ill, the fever did not come to me 
somehow, but I seemed to get stupid with missing 
Winny. Mamma and my aunties talked to me, 
but it did not do any good. They could not tell 
me the onl}- things I cared to hear — all about 
Winny, what she was doing, what lessons she 
would have, if she would always wear white 
frocks, and all sorts of things, that I must have 
sadly pained them by asking. For I did not then 
at all understand about death. I thought that 
Winny, my pretty Winny, just as I had known 
her, had gone to Heaven. I did not know that 

her dear little body had been laid to rest in the 

quiet churchyard, and that it was her spirit^ her 
pure happy spirit, that had gone to heaven. It 
was not for a long time after that, that I was old 
enough to understand at all, and even now it is 
hard to understand. Mamma says even quite big, 
and very, very clever people find it hard, and that 

the best way is to trust to God to explain it 

afterwards. But still I like to think about it, 
and I like to think of what my aunties told me 
of the days Winny was ill — how happy and 
patient she was, how she seemed to “understand” 


56 


TELL ME A STORY. 


about going, and how she loved to have fresh 
wreaths of primroses about her all the time she 
was ill. 

I am a big girl now — nearly twelve. I am a 
good deal bigger than Winny was when she died, 
even Blanche is now as big as she was — is that 
not strange to think of? Perhaps I may live 
to be quite, quite an old woman — that seems 
stranger still. But even if I do I shall never 
forget Winny. I shall know her dear face again, 
and she will know mine — I feel sure she will, in 
that happy country Avhere she has gone. But I 
will never again say “good-night” to my Winny, 
for in that country “ there is no night — neither 
sorrow nor weeping.” 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


“They stole little Bridget 
For seven years long ; 

When she came home again 
Her friends were all gone.” 

There was once a boy who was a very good 
sort of a boy, except for two things; or perhaps I 
should say one thing. I am really not sure 
whether they were two things, or only two sides 
of the same thing; perhaps, children, you can 
decide. It was this. He could not bear his 
lessons, and his head was always running on 
fairies. You may say it is no harm to think 
about fairies, and I do not say that in moderation 
it is. But when it goes the length of thinking 
about them so much that you have no thought for 
anything else, then I think it is harm — don’t 
you? and I dare say that this had to do with 
Con’s hating his lessons so. Perhaps you will 
think it was an odd fancy for a boy: it is more 
often that girls think about fairies, but you must 
remember that there are a great many kinds of 


67 


58 


TELL ME A STORY. 


fairies. There are pixies and gnomes, and 
brownies and cobs, all manner of queer, clever, 
mischievous, and kindly creatures, besides the 
pretty, gentle, little people whom one always 
thinks of as haunting the woods in the summer- 
time, and hiding among the flowers. 

Con knew all about them ; where he got his 
knowledge from I can’t say, but I hardly think 
it was out of books. However that may have 
been, he did know all about the fairy world as 
accurately as some boys know all about birds’ 
nests, and squirrels, and field mice, and hedge- 
hogs. And there was one good thing about this 
fancy of Con’s; it led him to know a great many 
queer things about out-of-door’s creatures that 
most boys would not have paid attention to. He 
did not care to know about birds’ nests for the 
sake *of stealing them for instance, but he had 
fancies that some of the birds were special 
favourites of the fairies, and it led him to watch 
their little ways and habits with great attention. 
He knew always where the first primroses were 
to be found, because he thought the fairies dug 
up the earth about their roots, and watered them 
at night, when every one was asleep, with magic 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


59 


water out of the lady well, to make them come up 
quicker, and many a morning he would get up 
very, very early, in hopes of surprising the tiny 
gardeners at their work before they had time to 
decamp. But he never succeeded in doing so; 
and, after all, when he did have an adventure, it 
came, as most things do, just exactly in a way 
he had never in the least expected it. 

Con’s home had something to do with his fanci- 
fulness perhaps. I won’t tell you where it was, 
for it doesn’t matter; and though some of the 
wiser ones among you may think you can guess 
what country he belonged to when I tell you that 
his real name was not Con, but Connemara, I 
must tell you you are mistaken. No, I won’t 
tell you where his home was, but I will tell you 
what it was. It was a sort of large cottage, and 
it was perched on the side of a mountain, not a 
hill, a real mountain, and a good big one too, and 
there were ever so many other mountains near by. 
There was a pretty garden round the cottage, 
and at the back a door opened in the garden 
wall right on to the mountain. Wasn’t that 
nice ? And if you climbed up a little way 
you had such a view. You could see all the 


60 


TELL ME A STORY. 


o'ther mountains poking their heads up into the 
sky one above the other — some of them looked 
bare and cold, and some looked comfortable and 
warmly clad in cloaks of trees and shrubs and 
furze, but still they all looked beautiful. For 
the sunshine and the clouds used to chase each 
other over the heights and valleys so fast it was 
like giants playing bo-peep; that was on fine days 
of course. On foggy and rainy days there were 
grand sights to be seen too. First one mountain 
and then another would put on a nightcap of 
great heavy clouds, and sometimes the nightcaps 
would grow down all over them till they were 
quite hidden ; and then all of a sudden they 
would rise off again slowly, bit by bit, till Con 
could see first up to the mountain’s waist, then 
up, up, up to the very top again. That was 
another kind of bo-peep. 

Summer and winter, fine or wet, cold or hot. 
Con used to go to school every day. He was 
only seven years old, and there was a good way 
to walk, more than a mile; but it was very sel- 
dom, very, very seldom, that he missed going. 
There were reasons why it was best for him to 
go; his father and mother knew them, and he was 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


61 


too good not to do what they told him, whether 
he liked it or not. But he was like the horse 
that one man led to the water, but twenty 
couldn’t make drink. There was no difficulty in 
making Con go to school; but as for getting him 
to learn once he was there — ah, no! that was a 
different matter. So I fear I cannot say that he 
was much of a favourite with his teachers. You 
see they didn’t know that his little head was so 
full of fairies that it really had no room for any- 
thing else, and it was only natural that they 
should think him inattentive and even stupid, and 
their thinking so did not make Con like his 
lessons any better. And with his playmates he 
was not a favourite either. He never quarrelled 
with them, but he did not seem to care about 
their games, and they laughed at him, and called 
him a muff. It was a pity, for I believe it was 
partly to make him play with other boys that his 
father and mother sent him to school; and for 
some things the boys couldn’t help liking him. 
He was so good-natured, and, for such a little 
fellow, so brave. He could climb trees like a 
squirrel, and he was never afraid of anything. 
Many and many a short winter’s afternoon it was 


62 


TELL ME A STORY. 


dark before Con left school to come home, but he 
did not mind at all. He would sling his satchel 
of books across his shoulders, and trudge manfully 
home — thinking — thinking. By this time I 
dare say you can guess of what he was thinking. 

There were two ways by which he could come 
home from school — there was the road, really not 
better than a lane, and when he came that way 
you see he had to do all his climbing at the end, 
for the road was pretty level, winding along round 
the foot of the mountain, perched on the side of 
which was Con’s home; and there was what was 
called the hill road, which ran up the mountain 
behind the village, and then went bobbing up and 
down along the mountain side still gradually 
ascending, away, away, I don’t know where to — 
up to some lonely shepherds’ huts I dare say, 
where nobody but the shepherds and the sheep 
ever went. But on its way it passed not very 
far from Con’s home. I need hardly say that the 
hill road was the boy’s favourite way. He liked 
it because it was more “climby,” and for another 
reason too. By this way, he passed the cottage of 
an old woman named Nance, of whom he was 
extremely fond, and to whom he would ahvays 
stop to speak if he possibly could- 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


63 


I don’t know that many boys and girls would have 
taken a fancy to Nance. She was certainly not 
pretty, and what is more she was decidedly queer. 
She was very, very small, indeed the smallest 
person I ever heard of, I think. When Con stood 
beside her, though he was only seven, he really 
looked bigger than she did, and she was so funnily 
dressed too. She always wore green, quite a 
bright green, and her dresses never seemed to get 
dull or soiled though she had all her housework 
to do for herself, and she had over her green 
dress a long brown cloak with a hood, which she 
generally pulled over her face to shield her eyes 
from the sun, she said. Her face was very small 
and brown and puckered-up looking, but she had 
bright red cheeks, and very bright dark eyes. She 
was never seen either to laugh or cry; but she used 
to smile sometimes, arid her smile was rather nice. 

The neighbours — they were hardly to be called 
her neighbours, for her house was quite half-a- 
mile from any other — all called her “uncanny,” 
or whatever word they used to mean that, and 
they all said they did not know anything of her 
history, where she had come from, or anything 
about her. And once when Con repeated to her 


64 


TELL ME A STORY. 


some remarks of this kind which he had heard at 
school, Nance only smiled and said, no doubt the 
people of Greendale — that was the name of the 
village — were very wise.” 

“But have you always lived here, Nance?” 
asked Con. 

“No, Connemara,” she answered gravely, “not 
always.” 

But that was all she said, and somehow Con 
did not care to ask her more. 

It was not often he asked her questions ; he 
was not that sort of boy for one thing, and 
besides, there was something about her that for- 
bade it. He used to sit at one side of the cottage 
fire, or, in summer, on the turf seat just outside 
the door, watching Nance’s tiny figure as she 
flitted about, or sometimes just staring up at the 
sky, or into the fire without speaking. Nance 
never seemed to mind what he did, and he in no 
way doubted that she was glad to see him, though 
by words she had never said so. When he did 
speak it was always about one thing — what, you 
can guess, it was always about fairies. It was 
through this that he had first made friends with 
Nance. She had found him peering into the hoi- 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


65 


low trunk of an old solitary oak-tree that stood 
farther down the hill, not very far from her 
dwelling. 

“What are you doing there, Connemara?” she 
said. 

“I was thinking this might be one of the doors 
into fairyland,” he answered quietly, without 
seeming surprised at her knowing his name. 

“And what should you know about that place?” 
she said again. 

And Con turned towards her his earnest blue 
eyes, and told her all his thoughts and fancies. 
It seemed easier to him to tell Nance about them 
than it had ever seemed to tell any one else — his 
feelings seemed to put themselves into words, as 
if Nance drew them out. 

Nance said very little, but she smiled. And 
after that Con used to stop at her cottage nearly 
every day on his way home — he dared not on his 
way to school, for fear of being late, for almost 
the only thing he always did get was good marks 
for punctuality. His people at home did not 
know much about Nance. He told his mother 
about her once, and asked if he might stay to 
speak to her; and when his mother heard that 


66 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Nance’s cottage was very clean, she said, “Yes, 
she didn’t mind,” and, after that. Con somehow 
never mentioned her again. He came to have 
gradually a sort of misty notion that Nance had 
had something to do with him ever since he was 
born. She seemed to know everything about him. 
From the very first she called him by his proper 
name — not Con or Master Con, but Connemara, 
and he liked to hear her say it. 

One winter afternoon, it was nearly dark though 
it was only half-past three. Con coming home 
from school (the master let them out earlier on 
the very short days), stopped as usual at Nance’s 
cottage. It was very, very cold, the fierce north 
wind came swirling down from the mountains, 
round and round, here, there, and everywhere, till, 
but for the unmistakable “ freeze ” in its breath, 
you would hardly have known whence it blew. 

“It is so cold, Nance,” said the boy, as he 
settled himself by the fire. Nance’s fires always 
burnt so bright and clear. 

“Yes,” said Nance, “the snow is coming, Con- 
nemara.” 

“I don’t care,” said Con, shaking his shaggy 
fair hair out of his eyes, for the heat was melting 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


67 


the icicles upon it. “I’m not going to hurry. 
Father and mother are away for two days, so 
there’s no one to miss me. Mayn’t I stay, 
Nance?” 

Nance did not answer. She went to the door 
and looked out, and Con thought he heard her 
whisper something to herself. Immediately a 
blast of wind came rushing down the hill, into 
the very room it seemed to Con. Nance closed 
the door. “Not long; the storm is coming,” she 
said again, in answer to his question. 

But in the meantime Con made himself very 
comfortable by the fire, amusing himself as usual 
by staring into its glowing depths. 

“Nance,” he said at last, “do you know what 
the boys at school say? They say they wonder 
I’m not afraid of you! They say you’re a witch, 
Nance!” 

He looked up in her face brightly with his 
fearless blue eyes, and laughed so merrily that all 
the corners of the queer little cottage seemed to 
echo it back. Nance, however, only smiled. 

“If you were a witch, Nance, I’d make you 
grant me some wishes, three anyway,” he went 
on. “Of course you know what the first would 


68 


TELL ME A STORY. 


be, and, indeed, if I had that, I don’t know that 
I would want any other. I mean, to go to fairy- 
land, you know.” 

Nance nodded her head. 

“The other two would be for it to be always 
summer, and for me never, never, never to have 
any lessons to learn,” he continued. 

“Never to grow a man?” said Nance. 

“I don’t know,” answered Con. '‘'‘Lessons don’t 
make boys grow; but still I suppose they have to 
have them sometime before they are men. But I 
shouldn’t care if I could go to fairyland, and if 
it would be always summer; I don’t think I 
would care about ever being a man.” 

As he said these words the fire suddenly sent 
out a sputtering blaze. It jumped up all at once 
with such a sort of crackle and fizz. Con could 
have fancied it was laughing at him. He looked 
up at Nance. She was not laughing; on the 
contrary, her face looked very grave, graver than 
ever he had seen it. 

“Connemara,” she said slowly, “take care. 
You don’t know what you are saying.” 

But Con stared into the fire again and did not 
answer. I hardly think he heard what she said; 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


69 


the warm fire made him drowsy, and the bright- 
ness dazzded his eyes. He was almost beginning 
to nod, when Nance spoke again to him, rather 
sharply this time. 

“My boy, the snow is beginning; you must go.” 
Con’s habit of obedience made him start up, 
sleepy though he was. Nance was already at the 
door looking out. 

“Do not linger on the way, Connemara,” she 
said, “and do not think of anything but home. 
It will be a wild night, but if you go straight 
and swift you will reach home soon.” 

“I’m not afraid,” said Con stoutly, as he set 
off. 

“I could wish he were,” murmured Nance to 
herself, as she watched the little figure showing 
dark against the already whitening hillside, till 
it was out of sight. 

Then she came back into the cottage, but she 
could not rest. 

Con strode on manfully; the snow fell thicker 
and thicker, the wind blew fiercer and fiercer, but 
he had no misgiving. He had never before been 
out in a snow-storm, and knew nothing of its 
special dangers. For some time he got on very 


70 


TELL ME A STORY. 


well, keeping strictly to the path, but suddenly, 
some little way up the mountain to his right, 
there flashed out a bright light. It jumped and 
hopped about in the queerest way. Con stood 
still to watch. 

“Can it be a wdll-o’-the-wisp?” thought he, in 
his innocence forgetting that a bleak mountain 
side in a snow-storm is hardly the place for jack- 
o’-lanterns and such like. 

But while he watched the light it all at once 
settled steadily down, on a spot apparently but a 
few yards above him. 

“It may be some one that has lost their road,” 
thought Con; “I could easily show it them. I 
may as well climb up that little way to see ; ” for 
strangely enough the thought of the fairies having 
anything to do with what he saw never once 
occurred to him. 

He left the path and began to climb. There, 
just above him, was the light, such a pretty clear 
light, shining now so steadily. It did not seem 
to move, but still as fast as he thought he had all 
but reached it, it receded, till at last, tired, and 
baffled, he decided that it must be a will-o’-the- 
wisp, and turned to regain the road. But like so 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


71 


many wise resolutions, this one was more easily 
made than executed; Con could not find the road, 
hard though he tried. The snow came more and 
more thickly till it blinded and bewildered him 
hopelessly. Con did his utmost not to cry, but at 
last he could bear up no longer. He sank down 
on the snow and sobbed piteously; then a pleasant 
resting feeling came over him, gradually he left 
off crying and forgot all his troubles; he began to 
fancy he was in his little bed at home, and 
remembered nothing more about the snow or 
anything. 

Nance meanwhile had been watching anxiously 
at her door. She saw that the snow was coming 
faster, and that the wind was rising. Every now 
and then it seemed to rush down with a sort of 
howling scream, swept round the kitchen and out 
again, and whenever it did so, the fire would leap 
up the chimney, as if it were laughing at some 
one. 

“Frisken is at his tricks to-night,” said Nance 
to herself, and every moment she seemed to grow 
more and ;more anxious. At last she could bear 
it no longer. She reached a stout stick, which 
stood in a corner of the room, drew her brown 


72 


TELL ME A STORY. 


cloak more closely round her, and set off down 
the path where she had lost sight of Con. The 
storm of wind and snow seemed to make a play- 
thing of her; her slight little figure swayed and 
tottered as she hastened along, but still she per- 
severed. An instinct seemed to tell her where 
she should find the boy; she aimed almost directly 
for the place, but still Connemara had lain some 
time in his death-like sleep before Nance came up 
to him. There was not light enough to have 
distinguished him ; what with the quickly- 
approaching darkness and the snow, which had 
already almost covered his little figure, Nance 
could not possibly have discovered him had she 
not stumbled right upon him. But she seemed to 
know what she was about, and she did not appear 
the least surprised. She managed with great 
difficulty to lift him in her arms, and turned 
towards her home. Alas, she had only staggered 
on a few paces when she felt that her strength 
was going. Had she not sunk down on to the 
ground, still tightly clasping the unconscious 
child, she would have fallen. 

“It is no use,” she Avhispered at last; “they 
have been too much for me. The child will die 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


73 


if I don’t get help. The only creature that has 
loved me all these long, long years! Oh, Frisken, 
you might have played your tricks elsewhere, and 
left him to me. But now I must have your 
help.” 

She struggled again to her feet, and, with her 
stick, struck sharply three times on the mountain 
side. Immediately a door opened in the rock, 
revealing a long passage within, with a light, as 
of a glowing fire, at the end, and Nance, exerting 
all her strength, managed to drag herself and Con 
within this shelter. Instantly the door closed 
again. 

No sooner had it done so, no sooner was Nance 
quite shut out from the outside air, than a 
strange change passed over her. She grew erect 
and vigorous, and the weight of the boy in her 
arms seemed nothing to her. She looked 'many 
years younger in an instant, and with the greatest 
ease she carried Con along the passage, which 
ended in a small cave, where a bright fire was 
burning, in front of which lay some soft furry 
rugs, made of the skins of animals. With a sigh 
Nance laid Con gently down on the rugs. “He 
will do now,” she said to herself. 


74 


TELL ME A STORY. 


The first thing Con was aware of when a sort 
of half-conscionsness returned to him, was the 
sound of voices. He did not recognise either of 
them; he was too sleepy to think where he was, 
or to take in the sense of what he heard, but 
long afterwards the words returned to him. 

“Of course we shall do him no harm,” said the 
first voice. “That is not our way Avith those 
Avho come to us as he has done. All his life he 
has been wishing to come to us, and Ave might 
bear you a grudge for trying to stop him.” 

Here the speaker burst into a curious, ringing 
laugh, Avhich seemed to be re-echoed by number- 
less other voices in the distance. 

“You made him Avish it,” ansAvered some one 
— it was Nance — sadly. 

“ We made him Avish it! Ha, ha! ha, ha! Did 
you ever hear anything like that, my dear 
friends? Why did his mother tie up his sleeves 
Avith green ribbon before he Avas christened? 
AnsAver that. Ha, ha! ha, ha!” And then there 
came another succession of rollicking laughter. 

“It Avas to be, I suppose,” said Nance. “But 
you Avon’t keep him. I brought him here to save 
his life, not to lose his ” — 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


75 


“Hush, hush; how can you be so ill-mannered?” 
interrupted the other. '‘’‘Keep him? of course not, 
unless he wants to stay^ the pretty dear.” 

“But will you make him want to stay?” 
pleaded Nance. 

“ How could we ? ” said the other mockingly. 
“How could we influence him? He is a pupil of 
yours. But if you like to change your mind, you 
may come hack instead of him. Ha, ha! ha, ha! 
what a joke ! ” And the laughter sounded as if 
the creatures, whoever they were, were holding 
their sides, and rolling about in the extremity of 
their glee. It faded away, gradually however, 
growing more and more indistinct, as if receding 
into the distance. And Con turned round on his 
side, and fell asleep more soundly than ever. 

When at last he really awoke he found himself 
lying on a bed of soft moss, under the shade of 
some great trees, for it was summer time — 
summer evening time it seemed, for the light 
was subdued, like that of the sun from behind a 
cloud. Con started up in amazement, rubbing 
his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming. 


76 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Where was he? How could it all be? The last 
thing he remembered was losing his way in the 
snow-storm on the mountain ; what had become 
of the wunter and the snow? He looked about 
him; the place he was in seemed to be a sort of 
forest glade ; the foliage of the trees was so 
thickly interlaced overhead that only little patches 
of sky were here and there to be seen. There 
was no sunshine; just the sarnie even, pale light 
over everything. It gave him again the feeling 
of being in a dream. Suddenly a sound caught 
his ears, it was that of running water; he turned 
in the direction whence it came. 

It was the loveliest little brook you ever saw 
— “with many a curve” it wound along through 
the forest, and on its banks grew the most 
exquisite and wonderful variety of flowers. 
Flowers of every colour, but of shapes and forms 
Con had never seen before. He stood looking at 
them in bewildered delight, and as he looked, 
suddenly the thought for the first time flashed 
into his mind — “This is fairyland! I have got 
my wish at last. I am in fairyland!” 

There was something, even to him, almost over- 
whelming in the idea. He could not move or 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


77 


speak, hardly even breathe. All at once there burst 
out in every direction, above his head, beneath his 
feet, behind him, in front of him, everywhere in 
fact’, peals and peals of laughter — the clearest, mer- 
riest, most irresistible laughter you ever heard. 

“It’s the fairies,” thought Con, “but where are 
they?” 

Where were they? Everywhere. There came 
another shrill peal of laughter and up they 
sprang, all together, from every imaginable corner. 
There was not a branch of a tree, hardly even a 
twig, it seemed to Con, on which one was not 
perched. They poked up their comical faces 
above the clear water of the brook where they 
must have been hiding, though how he had 
failed to see them there the boy could not 
imagine ; they started up from the ground in 
such numbers, that Con lifted carefully first one 
foot and then the other to make sure he was 
not tramping upon some of them; they actually 
swarmed, and Con could not make it out at all. 
Could they have only just come, or had they been 
there all the time, and had something wrong with 
his eyes prevented his seeing them before? No, 
he couldn’t make it out. 


78 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Were they like what he had expected to find 
them? Hardly, at least he was not sure. Yet 
they were very pretty; they were as light and 
bright and agile as — like nothing he could think 
of. Their faces seemed to be brimming over with 
glee; there was not a sad or anxious look among 
them. They were dressed in every colour of the 
rainbow, I was going to say, but that would not 
be true, for there were no hrilliartt colours among 
them. In every shade that you see in the woods 
in autumn would be more correct; the ladies in 
the soft greens and brown pinks and tender 
yellows of the fading leaves, the gentlemen in the 
olives and russet-browns and purples which give 
the deeper tints of autumn foliage — perhaps this 
was the reason that Con had not at first distin- 
guished them from the leaves and the moss and 
the tree-roots where they had lain hidden? 

He stood gazing at them in silence, wondering 
when they were going to leave off laughing. At 
last the noise subsided, and one fairy, who had 
been swinging on a bough just above Con’s head, 
slid down and stood before him. 

“Welcome to fairyland, Connemara,” he said 
pompously. He was one of the tallest among 



“Welcome to Fairyland, Connemara.” — p. 78. 





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CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


79 


them, reaching above Con’s waist. His face, like 
the rest, was full of fun, but it had a look of 
great determination too. “My name is Frisken,” 
he continued, “at least that’s one of my names, 
and it will do for you to use as well as any 
other, though up above there they have ever so 

many names for me. I am an old friend of 

yours, though you may not know it, and you will 
find it for your interest to please me. We’ve 
given up kings and queens lately, we find it’s 
better fun without ; but, considering everything, 
I think I may say my opinion is considered of 
some importance. Elves, do you agree with me?” 

They all raised a shout of approval, and Frisken 
turned again to Con. “Our laws are easy to 

keep,” he said, “you will soon know them. 

Your duties are comprised in one word, Play^ and 
if ever you attempt to do anything else it will be 
the worse for you. You interrupted us in the 
middle of a dance, by-the-by. Elves, strike up 
the music.” 

Then Frisken took Con’s right hand, and a 
lovely little maiden clad in the palest green, and 
with flowing yellow hair, took the other, and the 
fairies made themselves into dozens and dozens of 


80 


TELL ME A STORY. 


rings, and twirled and whirled away to the sound 
of the gayest and most inspiriting music. Con 
had never enjoyed himself so much in his life, 
and the best of it was the more he danced the 
more he wanted to dance; he jumped and whirled 
and twirled as fast as any (though I have no 
doubt the fairies thought him rather clumsy about 
it), and yet without the very least feeling of 
fatigue. He felt as if he could have gone on for 
ever. Suddenly the elves stopped. 

“ Oh don’t stop ! ” said Con, who was beginning 
to feel quite at home, “do let’s go on. I am not 
a bit tired.” 

Tired f said Frisken, contemptuously, “who 
ever heard such a word? How can you be so ill- 
mannered? Besides, mortal though you are, you 
certainly should not be tired. Why, you’re only 
just awake, and you slept long enough to last 
you at any rate for ” — 

“For how long?” said Con, timidly. 

But Frisken did not answer, and Con, who was 
rather in awe of him, thought it best not to press 
the enquiry. The fairies did not go on dancing, 
however. They were fond of variety, evidently, 
whether they ever got tired or not. They now 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


81 


all “adjourned” to another part of the forest, 
where a grand banquet was prepared. What the 
viands were, Con had no idea, but he little cared, 
for they were the most delicious he had ever 
tasted. He was not a greedy boy by any means, 
but he did enjoy this feast; everything was so 
charming; the fairies all reclined on couches made 
of the same soft green moss as that on which he 
had found himself lying when he first awoke, and 
all the time the invisible musicians played lovely, 
gentle music, which, had Con not winked vio- 
lently, would have brought the tears to his eyes, 
for, somehow, it made him think of home, and 
wonder what his mother was doing, and whether 
she was in trouble about his absence. It did not 
seem to affect the fairies in the same way; they 
were chattering, and joking, and laughing, just as 
merrily as ever; once Con caught Frisken’s eye 
fixed upon him, and almost immediately after, the 
music stopped, and the games began. What won- 
derful games they were! I cannot tell you half of 
them; one favourite one you may have heard of 
before — they buried a seed a little way in the 
ground, and then danced round it in a circle, 
singing some queer wild words which Con could 


82 


TELL ME A STORY. 


not understand. Then they all stood still and 
called to Con to look; he could hardly believe 
his eyes — there was the seed already a little 
plant, and even as he looked, it grew, and greAV, 
and grew, up into a great strong tree; and as the 
branches rose higher and higher, the fairies caught 
hold of them and rose up with them into the sky, 
till the tree seemed to be covered with fruits of 
every shape and colour. Con had not recovered 
his amazement, when they were all down again, 
ready for something else. This time, perhaps, it 
would be the mouse game — a dozen or two of 
fairies would turn themselves into mice, and 
Frisken and one or two others into cats, and 
then what a chase they had! It puzzled Con 
quite as much as the seed game, for he was sure 
he saw Frisken gobble up two or three mice, and 
yet — in a moment, there they all were again in 
their proper fairy forms, not one missing! He 
wished he could ask Frisken to explain it, but he 
had not time, for now an expedition to the treas- 
ure caves was proposed, and off they all set, 
some riding on fairy piebald ponies about the size 
of a rocking-horse, some driving in mother-of-pearl 
chariots drawn by large white cats, some running. 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


83 


some dancing along. And, oh, the treasure caves, 
when they got there! All the stories Con had 
ever heard of — Aladdin, and genii and pirates’ 
buried riches, none of them came up to these 
wonderful caves in the least. There were just 
heaps of precious stones, all cut and polished, and, 
according to fairy notions, quite ready for wear. 
For they all helped themselves to as many jewels 
as they wanted, strung them together on silk, 
with needles that pierced them as easily as if 
they had been berries, and flitted about as long as 
the fancy lasted, wreathed in diamonds and rubies, 
and emeralds, and every sort of brilliant stone. 
And then when they had had enough of them, 
threw them away as ruthlessly as children cast 
aside their withered daisy-chains. 

And so it went on without intermission; inces- 
sant jousts and revels, and banquets, constant 
laughter and joking, no pain, no fatigue, no 
anxiety. For the fairies lived entirely and com- 
pletely in the present, past and future have no 
meaning to their heedless ears, time passes as if 
it were not ; they have no nights or days, no 
summer or winter. It is always the same in 
fairyland. 


84 


TELL ME A STORY. 


But some things puzzled Con sorely. Strangely 
enough, in this realm of thoughtlessness, he was 
beginning to think as well as to fancy, to wish to 
know the whys and wherefores of things, as he 
had never done before. Now and then he tried to 
question Frisken, who, he felt certain, knew all 
he wished to learn, but it was difficult ever to 
get him to explain anything. Once, I was very 
nearly saying one day^ but there are no such 
things there — Con could keep no count of time, 
he could have told how many banquets he had 
been at, how many times they had been to the 
caves, how often they had bathed in the stream, 
but that was all — once, then, when Frisken 
seemed in a quieter mood than usual. Con tried 
what he could do. 

“Frisken,” he said, “why is it that all the 
oldest looking fairies among you are the smallest? 
Why, there’s the old fairy that drives the largest 
chariot, he’s not above half as big as you! It 
seems to me they keep getting smaller and smaller 
as they get older; why is it?” 

“ Of course they do. What else would you 
have?” said Frisken. “What an owl the boy must 
be ! How can you ask such ill-mannered questions ? ” 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


85 


“ Do you mean they get smaller and smaller 
till they die?” said Con. 

Frisken sprang to his feet with a sort of yell. 
It was the first time Con had seen him put out, 
but even now he seemed more terrified than 
angry. He sat down again, shaking all over. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he gasped; 
“we never mention such things.” 

“But what becomes of you all then — after- 
wards?"*^ said Con, more discreetly. 

Frisken had recovered himself. 

“What do you mean by your afters and befores 
and thens?” he said; “Isn’t now enough for you? 
What becomes of them? why, what becomes of 
things up there in that world of yours — where 
do the leaves and the flowers and the butterflies 
go to — eh?” 

“But they are only things f persisted Con, 
“they have no” — 

'‘''Hush!'** screamed Frisken, “how can you be 
so ill-mannered? come along, the music is begin- 
ning; they are waiting for us to dance.” 

But it was with a heavy heart that Con joined 
the dance. He was beginning to be very tired of 
this beautiful fairyland, and to wish very much 


86 


TELL ME A STORY. 


that he could go home to the cottage on the 
mountain, to his father and mother, even to his 
lessons! A shudder ran through him as old tales 
that he had heard or read, and scarcely under- 
stood, returned to his mind — of children stolen 
by the fairies who never went home again till too 
late, and who then in despair returned to their 
beautiful prison to become all that was left to 
them to be, fairies themselves, things^ like the 
flowers and the butterflies — supposing already it 
was too late for him? quickly as the time had 
passed, for all he knew, he had been a century in 
fairyland I 

But he had to dance and to sing and to play 
incessantly like the others. He must not let 
them suspect his discontent or he would lose all 
chance of escape. He watched his opportunity 
for getting more information out of Frisken. 

“Do you never go ‘up there’?” he asked him 
once, using the fairy word for the world he had 
^ left, “ for a change you know, and to play tricks 
on people — that must be such fun.” 

Frisken nodded his head mysteriously. He was 
delighted to see what a regular elfln Con was 
growing. 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


87 


“Sometimes,” he said. “It’s all very well for 
a little while, but I couldn’t stay there long. 
The air is so thick — ugh — and the cold and the 
darkness! You wouldn’t believe, would you, now 
that you know what it’s like down here, that 
fairies have been known to go up there and to 
8tay by their own choice — to become clumsy, 
miserable, short-lived mortals?” 

“What made them?” said Con. 

“ Oh, a stupid idea that if they stayed up there 
they would have the chance of growing into — oh, 
nonsense, don’t let us talk of anything so dis- 
agreeable. Come and have some games.” 

But Con persisted. He had discovered that 
when he got Frisken all to himself he had a 
strange power of forcing him to answer his 
questions. 

“Was old Nance once down here?” he asked 
suddenly. Frisken wriggled. 

“What if she was?” he said, “she’s not worth 
speaking about.” 

“Why did she go up there?” said Con. 

“She was bewitched,” answered Frisken. “I 
cannot think why you like to talk about such 
stupid things. You have forgotten about things 


88 


TELL ME A STORY. 


up there; luckily for you you came down here 
before you had learnt much. Did you ever hear 
talk of a stupid thing they call ‘love’ up there? 
That took her up, and then she stayed because 
she got more nonsense in her head.” 

“ J love my mother and my father,” said Con 
stoutly. 

“Nonsense,” said Frisken, “you make me feel 
sick. You must forget all that. Come along and 
make a tree.” 

But Con did not forget. He thought about it 
all constantly, and he understood much that he 
had never dreamt of before. He grew to detest 
his life among the fairies, and to long and plan 
for escape. But how to manage it he had no 
notion; which was the way “up” the fairies care- 
fully concealed from him, and he had no clue to 
guide him. 

“Nance! Nance! are you there? O dear Nance! 
do let me out, and take me home to my mother 
again. O Nance! Nance!” 

It was Con. He had managed to escape from 
Frisken and the others, amusing themselves in 
the treasure caves, and had made his way along a 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


89 


narrow winding passage in the rock, with a vague 
idea that as it went “up” it would perhaps prove 
to be a way out of fairyland. He had passed the 
little cave where Nance had warmed him by the 
fire, and the sight of it had brought back a misty 
feeling that Nance had had something to do with 
that night’s adventures. Now he was standing at 
the end of the passage, the way was stopped by a 
great wall of rock, he could go no farther. In an 
agony of fear lest his fairy jailers should overtake 
him, he beat upon the rock and cried for his old 
friend’s help. For some time he got no answer, 
then suddenly, just as he fancied he heard the 
rush of the elves behind him in hot pursuit, he 
caught the sound of his own name whispered 
softly through the rocky door. 

“Connemara,” a voice said, “I will strike the 
door three times, but stand back or it may crush 
you.” 

He crept back into a corner and listened for 
the taps. One, two, three, and the tremendously 
heavy door of stone rolled back without a sound, 
and in a moment Con was back in the stupid old 
world again! There stood Nance; she put her 
arms round him and kissed him without speaking. 


90 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Then “run home, Connemara,” she said, “run 
home fast, and do not linger. There is light 
enough to see the way, and there will soon be 
more.” 

“But come with me, dear Nance. I want to 
tell you all about it. Come home with me and I 
will tell mother you saved me.” 

But Nance shook her head. “I cannot,” she . 
said, sorrowfully; “run home, I entreat you.” 

He obeyed her, but turned to look back wKen 
he had run a little way. Nance was no longer 
there. 

It was early morning, but it was winter time. 
The ground was covered with snow beginning to 
sparkle in the red light of the rising sun. The 
dear old sun! How glad Con was to see his 
round face again. The world looked just the 
same as when he had left it, but suddenly a 
dreadful fear seized Con. How would he find 
all at home ? How long had he been away ? 
Could it be a hundred years, or fifty, or even 
only seven, what a terrible change he would find. 
He thought of “little Bridget” in the ballad, and 
shivered. He was almost afraid to open the 
garden door and run in. But everything looked 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


91 


the same; and, yes — there to his delight was old 
Evan the gardener already at work, apparently no 
older than when last he had seen him — it must 
be all right, Evan was so old, that to see him 
there at all told that no great time could have 
passed. 

“You’ve come home early this morning. Master 
Con,” he said. “Master and Missis came back 
last night in all that storm, but they weren’t 
frightened about you, as they had the message 
that you had stayed at school.” 

“ What do you mean, Evan — what message ? 
Who said I had stayed at school?” ‘‘Last night 
— could it have been only last night^^^ he 
whispered to himself. 

“A little boy brought the message, the queerest 
little chap you ever saw — not as big as you by 
half hardly, but speaking quite like a man. I 
met him myself on my way home, and turned 
back again to tell. What a rough night it was 
to be sure ! ” 

Feeling as if he were dreaming. Con turned to 
the house. There on the doorstep stood his 
mother, looking not a little astonished at seeing 
him. 


92 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“Why, Con, dear,” she exclaimed, “you have 
come over early this morning. Did you get 
home-sick in one night?” 

But Con had flung his arms round her neck, 
and was kissing her dreadfully. “ O mother, 
mother! I am so glad to see you again,” he cried. 

“You queer boy. Why, I declare he has tears 
in his eyes ! ” his mother exclaimed. “ Why, Con, 
dear, you seem as if you had been away a year 
instead of a night.” 

“I will tell you all about it, mother. But, oh! 
please, why did you tie up my sleeves with green 
ribbon before I was christened?” 

His mother stared. “Now who could have told 
you that, child?” she said. “It was silly of me, 
but I only did it to tease old nurse, who was 
full of fancies. Besides the days of fairy steal- 
ings are over. Con, though I have often thought 
nurse would have been alarmed if she had known 
how full of fairy fancies you were, my boy.” 

“Mother, mother! listen, it is quite true,” said 
Con, and he hastened to pour out the story of his 
wonderful adventure. His mother did look aston- 
ished, but naturally enough she could «.ot believe 
it. She would have it he had fallen asleep at 
old Nance’s cottage and dreamt it all. 


CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. 


93 


“But who was the boy that brought the mes- 
sage then?” said Con. “I know he was a fairy.” 

And his mother could not tell what to say. 

“I know what to do,” he went on; “will you 
come with me to Nance’s cottage and ask her?''' 
and to this his mother agreed. 

And that very morning to the old woman’s 
cottage they went. It was in perfect order as 
usual, not a speck of dust to be seen; the little 
bed made, and not a stool out of its place. But 
there was no fire burning in the little hearth — 
and no Nance to be seen. Con ran all about, 
calling her, but she had utterly disappeared. He 
threw himself on the ground, sobbing bitterly. 

“She has gone back to them instead of me — to 
prevent them coming after me,” he cried, “and 
oh! she will be so unhappy.” 

And nothing that his mother could say would 
console him. 

But a night or two afterwards the boy had a 
dream, or a vision, which comforted him. He 
thought he saw Nance; Nance with her kind, 
strange smile, and she told him not to be 
troubled. “I have only gone back for a time,” 
she said, “and they cannot hold me, Connemara. 


94 


TELL ME A STORY. 


I shall have conquered after all. You will never 
see me again here. I am soon going to a country 
very far away. I shall never come back to my 
little cottage, but still we may meet again and 
you must not grieve for me.” 

So Con’s mind was at peace about his old 
friend. Of course she never came back, and 
before long her cottage was pulled down. No 
one could say to whom it belonged, but no one 
objected to its destruction. She had been a 
witch they said, and it was best to do away with 
her dwelling. 

What Con’s mother really came in the end to 
think about his story, I cannot say ; nor do I 
know if she ever told his father. I fancy Con 
seldom, if ever, spoke about it again. But as all 
who knew him when he grew up to be a man 
could testify, his taste of the land of “all play 
and no work,” never did him any harm. 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


“But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played in the heath one day ; 

And I cried for her more than a week, dears” — 
****** 

They say that the world — and of course that 
means the people in it — has changed very much 
in the last half century or so. I dare say in some 
ways this is true, but it is not in all. There are 
some ways in which I hope and think people will 
never change much. Hearts will never change, I 
hope — good, kind hearts who love and trust each 
other I mean; and little children, they surely will 
always be found the same, — simple and faithful, 
happy and honest; why, the very word childlike 
would cease to have any meaning were the 
natures it describes to alter. 

Looking back over more than fifty years to a 
child life then, far away from here, flowing peace- 
fully on, I recognise the same nature, the same 
innocent, unsuspicious enjoyment, the same quaint, 
so-called “old-fashioned” ways that now-a-days I 


95 


96 


TELL ME A STOKY. 


find in the children growing up about me. The 
little ones of to-day enjoy a shorter childhood, 
there is more haste to hurry them forward in the 
race — we would almost seem to begrudge them 
their playtime — but that I think is the only real 
difference. My darlings are children after all; 
they love the sunshine and the flowers, mud-pies 
and mischief, dolls and story-books, as fervently 
as ever. And long may they do so! 

My child of fifty years ago was in all essentials 
a real child. Yet again, in some particulars, she 
was exceptional, and exceptionally placed. She 
had never travelled fifty miles from her home, 
and that home was far away in the country, in 
Scotland. And a Scottish country home in those 
days was far removed from the bustle and turmoil 
and excitement of the great haunts of men. Am 
I getting beyond you, children, dear? Am I 
using words and thinking thoughts you can 
scarcely follow? Well, I won’t forget again. I 
will tell you my simple story in simple words. 

This long-ago little girl was named Janet. She 
was the youngest of several brothers and sisters, 
some of whom, when she was born even, were 
already out in the world. They were, on the 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


97 


whole, a happy, united family; they had their 
troubles, and disagreements perhaps too, some- 
times, but in one thing they all joined, and that 
was in loving and petting little Janet. How 
well she remembers even now, all across the long 
half century, how the big brothers would dispute 
as to which of them should carry her in her 
flowered chintz dressing-gown, perched like a tiny 
queen on their shoulders, to father’s and mother’s 
room to say good-morning; how on Hallowe’en 
the rosiest apples and finest nuts were for “wee 
Janet”; how the big sisters would work for hours 
at her dolls’ clothes; how, dearest memory of all, 
the kind, often careworn, studious father would 
read aloud to her, hour after hour, as she lay on 
the hearth-rug, coiled up at his feet. 

For little Janet could not read much to hersejf. 
She was not blind, but her sight was imperfect, 
and unless the greatest care had been taken she 
might, by the time she grew up, have lost it 
altogether. To look at her you would not have 
known there was anything wrong with her blue 
eyes; the injury was the result of an accident in 
her infancy, by which one of the delicate sight 
nerves had been hurt, though not so as to prevent 


/ 

V 

98 TELL ME A STORY. 

the hope of cure. But for several years she was 
hardly allowed to use her eyes at all. She used 
to wear a shade whenever she was in a bright 
light, and she was forbidden to read, or to sew, 
or to do anything which called for much seeing. 
How she learnt to read I do not know — I do 
not think she could have told you herself — but 
still it is certain that she did learn; perhaps her 
kind father taught her this, and many more things 
than either he or she suspected in the long hours 
she used to lie by his study fire, sometimes talk- 
ing to him in the intervals of his writing, some- 
times listening with intense eagerness to the 
legends and ballads his heart delighted in, some- 
times only making stories to herself as she sat on 
the hearth-rug playing with her dolls. 

There are many quaint little stories of this 
long-ago maiden that you would like to hear, I 
think. One comes back to my mind as I write. 
It is about a mysterious holly bush in the garden 
of Janet’s home, which one year took it into its 
head to grow all on one side, in the queerest way 
you ever saw. This holly bush stood in a rather 
conspicuous position, just outside the breakfast- 
room window, and Janet’s father' was struck by 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


99 


the peculiar crookedness which afflicted it, and 
one morning he went out to examine it more 
closely. He soon found the reason — the main 
branch had been stunted by half an orange skin, 
which had been fitted upon it most neatly and 
closely, like a cap, just where it was sprouting 
most vigorously. Janet’s father was greatly sur- 
prised. “Dear me, dear me,” he exclaimed as he 
came in, “what a curious thing. How could this 
ever have got on to the holly bush ? An old 
orange skin, you see,” he went on, holding it up 
to the assembled family party. Little Janet was 
there, in her usual place by her father’s chair. 

“Was it on the robin’s bush, father?” she 
asked. 

“The robin’s bush, Janet? What do you 
mean ? ” 

“The bush the wee robin perches on when he 
comes to sing in the morning,” she answered 
readily. “A long, long time ago, I tied an 
orange skin on, to make a soft place for the dear 
robin’s feet. The bush was so prickly, I could 
not bear to see him stand upon it.” 

And to this day the crooked holly bush tells 
of the little child’s tenderness. 


100 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Then there is another old story of Janet, how, 
once being sorely troubled with toothache, and 
anxious to bear it uncomplainingly “ like a 
woman,” she was found, after being searched for 
everywhere, fast asleep in the “byre,” her little 
cheek pillowed on the soft skin of a few days’ 
old calf. “Its breath was so sweet, and it felt so 
soft and warm, it seemed to take the ache away,” 
she said. 

And another old memory of little Janet on a 
visit at an uncle’s, put to sleep in a room alone, 
and feeling frightened by a sudden gale of wind 
that rose in the night, howling among the trees 
and sweeping down the hills. Poor little Janet! 
It seemed to her she was far, far away from 
everybody, and the wind, as it were, took mortal 
form and voice, and threatened her, till she could 
bear it no longer. Up she got, all in the dark, 
and wandered away down the stairs and passages 
of the rambling old house, till at last a faint 
glimmer of light led her to a modest little room 
in the neighbourhood of the kitchen, where old 
Jamie, the faithful serving-man, who had seen 
pass away more than one generation of the family 
he was devoted to, was sitting up reading his 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


101 


Bible before going to bed. How well Janet 
remembers it even now! The old man’s start of 
surprise at the unexpected apparition of wee 
missy, how he took her on his knee and turned 
over the pages of “the Book,” to read to her 
words of gentle comfort, even for a little child’s 
alarm; how Jesus hushed the winds and waves, 
and bade them be still; how not a hair of the 
head of even tiny Janet could be injured without 
the Father’s knowledge; how she had indeed no 
reason to fear; till, soothed and reassured, the 
child let the good old man lead her back to bed 
again, where she slept soundly till morning. 

But all this time I am very long of introduc- 
ing to you, children, the real heroine of this story 
— not Janet, but who then? Janet’s dearest and 
most tenderly prized doll — “Mary Ann Jolly.” 

She was one of several, but the best beloved of 
all, though why it would have been difficult to 
say. She was certainly not pretty; indeed, to tell 
the truth, I fear I must own that she was 
decidedly ugly. And an ugly doll in those days 
was an ugly doll, my dears. For whether little 
girls have altered much or not since the days of 
Janet’s childhood, there can be no two opinions 


102 


TELL ME A STORY. 


about dolls; they have altered tremendously, and 
undoubtedly for the better. There were what 
people thought very pretty dolls then, and Janet 
possessed two or three of these. There was 
“Lady Lucy Manners,” an elegant blonde, with 
flaxen ringlets and pink kid hands and arms ; 
there was “Master Ronald,” a gallant sailor 
laddie, with crisp black curls and goggle bead 
eyes; there were two or three others — Arabellas 
or Clarissas, I cannot tell you their exact names; 
on the whole, for that time, Janet had a goodly 
array of dolls. But still, dearest of all was Mary 
Ann Jolly. I think her faithfulness, her thorough 
reliableness, must have been her charm; she never 
melted, wept tears of wax — that is to say, to the 
detriment of her complexion, when placed too 
near the nursery fire. She never broke an artery 
and collapsed through loss of sawdust. These 
weaknesses were not at all in her way, for she 
was of wood, wooden. Her features were oil- 
painted on her face, like the figure-head of a 
ship, and would stand washing. Her hair was a 
good honest black-silk wig, with sewn-on curls, 
and the whole affair could be removed at pleas- 
ure ; but oh, my dear children, she was ugly. 


MAEY ANN JOLLY. 


103 


Where she had come from originally I cannot 
say. I feel almost sure it was from no 
authorised doll manufactory. I rather think she 
was home-made to some extent, and I consider it 
highly probable that her beautiful features were 
the production of the village painter. But none 
of these trifling details are of consequence ; 
wherever she had come from, whatever her origin, 
she was herself — good, faithful Mary Ann Jolly. 

One summer time there came trouble to the 
neighbourhood where little Janet’s home was. A 
fever of some kind broke out in several villages, 
and its victims were principally children. For 
the elder ones of the family — such of them, that 
is to say, as were at home — but little fear was 
felt by their parents; but for Janet and the 
brother next to her, Hughie, only three years 
older than she, they were anxious and uneasy. 
Hughie was taken from the school, a few miles 
distant, to which every day he used to ride on 
his little rough pony, and for the time Janet and 
he were allowed to run wild. They spent the 
long sunny days, for it was the height of sum- 
mer, in the woods or on the hills, as happy as 
two young fawns, thinking, in their innocence. 


104 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“the fever,” to them but the name of an 
unknown and unrealisable possibility, rather a 
lucky thing than otherwise. 

And Hughie was a trusty guardian for his 
delicate little sister. He was a brave and manly 
little fellow; awkward and shy to strangers, but 
honest as the day, and with plenty of mother-wit 
about him. Janet looked up to him with affec- 
tion and admiration not altogether unmixed with 
awe. Hughie was great at “knowing best,” in 
their childish perplexities, and, for all his tender- 
ness, somewhat impatient of “want of sense,” or 
thoughtlessness. 

One day the two children, accompanied as 
usual by Hughie’s dog “Ceesar,” and the no less 
faithful Mary Ann Jolly, had wandered farther 
than their wont from home. Janet had set her 
heart on some beautiful water forget-me-nots, 
which, in a rash moment, Hughie had told her 
that he had seen growing on the banks of a little 
stream that flowed through a sort of gorge 
between the hills. It was quite three miles from 
home — a long walk for Janet, but Hughie knew 
his way perfectly — he was not the kind of boy 
ever to lose it; the day was lovely, and the burn 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


105 


ran nowhere near the direction they had been 
forbidden to take — that of the infected village. 
But Hughie, wise though he was, did not know 
or remember that close to the spot for which he 
was aiming ran a road leading directly from this 
village to the ten miles distant little town of 
Linnside, and even had he thought of it, the 
possibility of any danger to themselves attending 
the fact would probably never have struck him. 
There was another way to Linnside from their 
home, so Hughie ’s ignorance or forgetfulness was 
natural. 

The way down to the edge of the burn was 
steep and difficult,, for the shrubs and bushes grew 
thickly together, and there was no proper path. 

“Stay you here, Janet,” he said, finding for the 
child a seat on a nice flat stone at the , entrance 
to the gorge; “I’ll be back before you know I 
am gone, and I’ll get the flowers much better 
without you, little woman; and Mary Ann will 
be company like.” 

Janet obeyed without any reluctance. She had 
implicit faith in Hughie. But after a while 
Mary Ann confided to her that she was “weary- 
ing” of sitting still, and Janet thought it could 


106 


TELL ME A STORY. 


do no harm to take a turn up and down the 
sloping field where Hughie had left her. She 
Avandered to a gate a few yards off, and, finding 
it open, Avandered a little farther, till, Avithout 
knoAving it, she Avas within a stone’s throAv of 
the road I mentioned. And here an unexpected 
sight met Janet’s eyes, and made her lose all 
thought of Hughie and the forget-me-nots, and 
hoAV frightened he would be at missing her. 
DraAvn up in a corner by some trees stood one of 
those travelling houses on wheels, in which I 
suppose every child that ever Avas born has at 
one time or other thought that it would be 
delightful to live. Janet had never seen one 
before, and she gazed at it in astonishment, till 
another still more interesting object caught her 
attention. 

It was a child — a little girl just about her 
own age, a dark-eyed, dark -haired, brown-skinned, 
but very, very thin little girl, lying on a heap of 
old shaAvls and blankets on the grass by the side 
of the movable house. She seemed to be quite 
alone — there was no one in the Avaggon appar- 
ently, no sound to be heard; she lay quite still, 
one thin little hand under her head, the other 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


107 


clasping tightly some two or three poor flowers 
— a daisy or two, a dandelion, and some butter- 
cups — which she had managed to reach without 
moving from her couch. Janet, from under her 
little green shade, stared at her, and she returned 
the stare with interest, for all around was so still 
that the slight rustle made by the little intruder 
caught her sharp ear at once. . But after a 
moment her eyes wandered down from Janet’s fair 
childish face, on which she seemed to think she 
had bestowed enough attention, and settled them- 
selves on the lovely object nestling in the little 
girl’s maternal embrace. A smile of pleasure 
broke over her face. 

“What’s yon?” she said, suddenly. 

“What’s what?'^ said Janet. 

“ repeated the child, pointing with her 

disengaged hand to the faithful Mary Ann. 

exclaimed Janet. “That’s my doll. 
That’s Mary Ann Jolly. Did you never see a 
doll?” 

“No,” replied the brown-skinned waif, “never. 
She’s awfu’ bonny.” 

Janet’s maternal vanity was gratified. 

“She’s guid and she’s bonny,” she said, uncon- 


108 


TELL ME A STORY. 


sciously imitating, with ludicrous exactness, her 
own old nurse’s pet expression when she was 
pleased with her. She hugged Mary Ann closer 
to her as she spoke. “You’d like to have a dolly 
too, wouldn’t you, little girl?” 

The child smiled. 

“I couldna gie her tae ye,” said Janet, relaps- 
ing into Scotch, with a feeling that “high 
English ” would probably be lost upon her new 
friend. “But ye micht tak’ her for a minute in 
yer ain airms, if ye like?” 

“Ay wad I,” said the child, and Janet stepped 
closer to her and deposited Mary Ann in her 
arms. 

“Canna ye stan’ or walk aboot? Hae ye nae 
legs?” she inquired. 

“Legs,” repeated the child, “what for shud I 
no hae legs? I canna rin aboot i’ the noo; I’ve 
nae been weel, but I’ll sune be better. Eh my! 
but she’s awfu’ fine,” she went on, caressing 
Mary Ann as she spoke. 

But at this moment the bark of a dog inter- 
rupted the friendly conversation. Csesar appeared, 
and Janet started forward to reclaim her property, 
her heart for the first time misgiving her as to 



Janet stepped closer to her, and deposited Mary Ann 
IN HER Arms. — p. 108. 




MARY ANN JOLLY. 


109 


“what Hughie would say."” Just as she was 
taking Mary Ann out of the little vagrant’s arms, 
Hughie came up. He was hot, breathless, anx- 
ious, and, as a natural consequence of the last, 
especially, angry. 

“Naughty Janet, bad girl,” he exclaimed, in his 
♦ excitement growing more “Scotch” than usual. 
“What for didna ye bide whaur I left ye? I 
couldna think what had become o’ ye; bad girl. 
And wha’s that ye’re clavering wi’? Shame on 
ye, Janet.” 

He darted forward, snatched his little sister 
roughly by the arm, dropping the precious forget- 
me-nots in his flurry, and dragged Janet away, 
making her run so fast that she burst out sobbing 
with fear and consternation. She could not 
understand it; it was not like Hughie to be so 
fierce and rough. 

“You are very, very unkind,” she began, as 
soon as her brother allowed her to stop to take 
breath. “ Why should I nae speak to the puir wee 
girl ? She looked sae ill lying there her lane, and 
she was sae extraordinar’ pleased wi’ Mary Ann.” 

“You let her touch Mary Ann, did ye?” said 
Hughie, stopping short. “ I couldna have be- 


110 


TELL ME A STORY. 


lieved, Janet, you’d be such a fule. A big girl, 
ten years old, to ken na better! It’s ‘fare-ye- 
weel ’ to Mary Ann anyway, and you have your- 
self to thank for it.” 

They were standing near the spot where 
Hughie had left his sister while he clambered 
down to the burn, and before Janet had the least 
idea of his intention, Hughie seized the unfortu- 
nate doll, and pitched her, with all his strength, 
far, far away down among the brushwood of the 
glen. 

For an instant Janet stood in perfect silence. 
She was too thunderstruck, too utterly appalled 
and stunned, to take in the reality of what had 
happened. She had never seen Hughie in a 
passion in her life; never in all their childish 
quarrels had he been harsh or “bullying,” as I 
fear too many boys of his age are to their little 
sisters. She gazed at him in terrified consterna- 
tion, slowly, very slowly taking in the fact — to 
her almost as dreadful as if he had committed a 
murder — that Hughie had thrown away Mary 
Ann — her own dear, dear Mary Ann; and 
Hughie, her own brother had done it! Had he 
lost his senses? 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


Ill 


“Hughie,” she gasped out at last; that was all. 

Hughie looked uneasy, but tried to hide it. 

“Come on, Janet,” he said, “it’s getting late. 
We must put our best foot foremost, or nurse 
will be angry.” 

But Janet took no notice of what he said. 

“Hughie,” she repeated, “are ye no gaun to 
get me Mary Ann back again?” 

Hughie laughed, half contemptuously. “ Get 
her back again,” he said. “She’s ower weel 
hidden for me or anybody to get her back again. 
And why should I want her back when I’ve just 
the noo thrown her awa’? Na, na, Janet, you’ll 
have to put up wi’ the loss of Mary Ann; and I 
only hope you won’t have to put up wi’ waur. 
It’s your own fault; though maybe I shouldna’ 
have left her,” he added to himself. 

“Hughie, you’ve broke my heart,” said Janet. 
“What did you do it for?” 

“If you’d an ounce of sense you’d know,” said 
Hughie; “and if you don’t. Pm no gaun to tell.” 

And in dreary silence the two children made 
their way home — Hughie, provoked, angry, and 
uneasy, yet self-reproachful and sore-hearted; 
Janet in an anguish of bereavement and indigna- 


112 


TELL ME A STORY. 


tion, yet through it all not without little gleams 
of faith in Hughie still, that mysteriously cruel 
though his conduct appeared, there must yet 
somehow have been a good reason for it. 

It was not for long, however, that she under- 
stood it. She did not know that immediately 
they got home honest Hughie went to his father 
and told him all that had happened, taking blame 
to himself manfully for having for an instant left 
Janet alone. 

“And you say she does not understand at all 
why you threw the doll away,” said Janet’s 
father. “Did she not notice that the little girly 
had been ill?” 

“Oh yes, but she took no heed of it,” Hughie 
replied. “She thinks it was just awfu’ unkind 
of me to get in such a temper. I would like her 
to know why it was, but I thought maybe I had 
better not explain till I had told you.” 

“You were quite right, Hughie,” said his 
father; “and I think it is better to leave it. 
Wee Janet is so impressionable and fanciful, it 
would not do for her to begin thinking she had 
caught the fever from the child. We must leave 
it in God’s hands, and trust no ill will come of 


MAKY ANN JOLLY. 


113 


it. And the first day I can go to Linnside you 
shall come with me, and we’ll buy her a new 
doll.” 

“Thank you, father,” said Hughie gratefully. 
But he stopped as he was leaving the room, with 
his hand on the door handle, to say, half- laughing, 
half-pathetically, “I’m hardly thinking, father, 
that any new doll will make up to wee Janet for 
Mary Ann.” 

Janet heard nothing of this conversation, how- 
ever, and the silence which was, perhaps mis- 
takenly, preserved about the loss of her favourite 
added to the mysterious sadness of her fate. The 
poor little girl moped and pined, but said 
nothing. To Hughie her manner was gently 
reproachful, but nothing more. But all her 
brightness and playfulness had deserted her; she 
hung about listless and uninterested, and for 
some days there was not an hour during which 
one or other of her doting relations — father, 
mother, sisters, and brothers — did not make up 
his or her mind that their darling was smitten by 
the terrible blast of the fever. 

A week, ten days, nearly a fortnight passed, 
and they began to breathe more freely. Then 


114 


TELL ME A STORY. 


one day the father, remembering his promise, took 
Hughie with him to the town to buy a new doll 
for Janet, instead of her old favourite. I cannot 
describe to you the one they bought, but I know 
it was the prettiest that money could get at 
Linnside, and Hughie came home in great spirits 
with the treasure in his arms. 

“Janet, Janet,” he shouted, as soon as he had 
jumped off his pony, “where are you, Janet? 
Come and see what I’ve got for you!” 

Janet came slowly out of the study, where she 
had been lying coiled up on the floor, near the 
low window, watching for her father’s return. 

“I’m here, Hughie,” she said, trying to look 
interested and bright, though the effort was not 
very successful. 

But Hughie was too excited and eag-er to 
notice her manner. 

“Look here, Janet,” he exclaimed, unwrapping 
the paper which covered Miss Dolly. “Now, 
isn’t she a beauty? Far before that daft-like old 
Mary Ann; eh, Janet?” 

Janet took the new doll in her hands. “She’s 
bonny,” she said, hesitatingly. “It’s very kind 
of you, Hughie; but I wish, I wish you hadn’t. 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


115 


I don’t care for her. I dinna mean to vex ye, 
Hughie,” she continued, sadly, “but I canna help 
it. I want, oh I do want my ain Mary Ann!” 

She put the new doll down on the hall table, 
burst into tears, and ran away to the nursery. 

“She’s just demented about that Mary Ann,” 
said Hughie to his father, who had followed him 
into the hall. 

“I’m sorry for your disappointment, my boy,” 
said his father, “ but you must not take it to 
heart. I don’t think wee Janet can be well.” 

He was right. What they had so dreaded came 
at last, just as they had begun to hope that the 
danger was over. The next morning saw little 
Janet down with the fever. Ah, then, what sad 
days of anxiety and watching followed! How 
softly everybody crept about — a vain precaution, 
for poor Janet was unconscious of everything 
about her. How careworn and tear-stained were 
all the faces of the household — parents, brothers 
and sisters, and servants! What sad little 
bulletins, costing sixpence if not a shilling 
each in those days, children, were sent off by post 
every day to the absent ones, with the tidings 
still of “No better,” gradually growing into the 


, 116 TELL ME A STORY. 

still worse, “Very little hope.” It must have 
been a touching sight to see a whole household 
so cast down about the fate of one tiny, delicate 
child. 

And poor Hughie was the worst of all. They 
had tried to keep him separate from his sister, 
but it was no use. He had managed to creep 
into the room and kiss her unobserved, and then 
he had it all his own way — all the harm was done. 
But he could hardly bear to hear her innocent 
ravings, they were so often about the lost Mary 
Ann, and Hughie ’s strange cruelty in throwing 
her away. “ I canna think what came over 
Hughie to do it,” she would say, over and over 
again. “I want no new dollies. I only want 
Mary Ann.” 

Then there came a day on which the doctor 
said the disease was at its height — a few hours/ 
would show on which side the victory was to be; 
and the anxious faces grew more anxious still, 
and the silent prayers more frequent. But for 
many hours of this day Hughie was absent, and 
the others, in their intense thought about Janet, 
scarcely missed him. He came home late in the 
summer evening, with something in his arms. 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


117 


hidden under his jacket. And somehow his face 
looked more hopeful and happy than for days 
past. 

“ How is she ? ” he asked breathlessly of the 
first person he met. It was one of the elder 
sisters. 

“Better,” she replied, with the tears in her 
eyes. “ O Hughie, how can we thank God 
enough? She has wakened quite herself, and the 
doctor says now there is only weakness to fight 
against. She has been asking for you, Hughie. 
You may go up and say good-night. Where have 
you been all the afternoon?” 

But Hughie was already half way up the 
stairs. 

He crept into Janet’s room, where the mother 
was on guard. She made a sign to him to come 
to the bed where little Janet lay, pale, and thin 
and fragile, but peaceful and conscious. 

“Good-night, wee Janet,” Hughie whispered; 
“I’m sae glad wee Janet’s better.” 

“Good-night, Hughie,” she answered softly. 
“Kiss me, Hughie.” 

“I’ve some one else here to kiss you, wee 
Janet,” he said. 


118 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Janet looked up inquiringly. 

“You must not excite her, Hughie,” the 
mother whispered. But Hughie knew what he 
was about. He drew from under his jacket a 
queer, familiar figure. It was Mary Ann Jolly! 
There had been no rain, fortunately for her, 
during her exposure to the weather, and she was 
sturdy enough to have stood a few showers, even 
had there been any. She really looked in no way 
the worse for her adventure, as Hughie laid her 
gently down on the pillow beside Janet. 

“It’s no one to excite her, mother,” he said. 
“It’s no stranger; only Mary Ann. She’s been 
away paying a visit to the fairies in the glen, 
and I think she must have enjoyed it. She’s 
looking as bonny as ever, and she was in no 
hurry to come home. I had to shout for her all 
over the glen before I could make her hear. Are 
you glad she’s come, Janet?” 

Janet’s eyes were glistening. “O Hughie,” 
she whispered, “kiss me again. . I can sleep so 
well now.” 

The crisis no doubt had been passed before 
this, but still it is certain that Janet’s recovery 
was faster far than had been expected. And for 


MARY ANN JOLLY. 


119 


this she and Hughie, and some of the elder ones, 
too, I fancy, gave the credit to the return of her 
favourite. Hughie was well rewarded for his 
several hours of patient searching in the glen; 
and I am happy to tell you that he did not catch 
the fever. 

He would have been an elderly, almost an old 
man by now had he lived — good, kind Hughie. 
But that was not God’s will for him. He died 

long ago, in the prime of his youthful manhood; 

% 

and it is to his little grand-nephews and nieces 
that wee Janet’s daughter has been telling this 
simple story . of a long-ago little girl, and a 
long-ago doll, poor old Mary Ann Jolly! 


TOO BAD. 


“It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, 

That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore.” 

Spenser. 

Chapter I. 

“It’s too bad!” said Miss Judy; “I declare 
it’s really too had!'^^ and she came stumping 
along the road after her nurse, looking decidedly 
“put out.” 

“It would be something new if it wasn’t too 
bad with you, Miss Judy, about something or 
other,” said nurse coolly. 

Miss Judy was a kind-hearted, gentle -mannered 
little girl. She was pretty and healthy and 
clever — the sort of child any parents might have 
been proud of, any brothers and sisters fond of, 
had not all her niceness been spoiled by one most 
disagreeable fault. She was always grumbling. 
The hot days of summer, the cold days of winter, 
the rain, the wind, the dust, might, to hear her 
speak, have been expressly contrived to annoy 


120 


TOO BAD. 


121 


her. When it was fine, and the children were to 
go out a walk, Miss Judy was sure to have 
something she particularly wanted to stay in for; 
when it rained, and the house was evidently the 
best place for little people. Miss Judy was quite 
certain to have set her heart upon going out. 
She grumbled at having to get up, she grumbled 
at having to go to bed, she grumbled at lessons, 
she grumbled at play; she could not see that 
little contradictions and annoyances came to 
everybody in the world, and that the only way to 
do is to meet them bravely and sensibly. She 
really seemed to believe that nobody had so much 
to bear as she; that on her poor little shoulders 
all the tiresomenesses and disappointments, and 
“going the wrong way” of things, were heaped 
in double, and more than double quantities, and 
she persuaded herself that everybody she saw was 
better off in every way than herself, and that no 
one else had such troubles to bear. So, children, 
you will not be surprised to hear that poor Miss 
Judy was not loved or respected as much as some 
little girls who perhaps really deserved love and 
respect less. For this ugly disagreeable fault of 
hers hid all her good qualities ; and just as 


122 


TELL ME A STORY. 


flowers cannot flourish when shaded from the nice 
bright sun by some rank, wide-spreading weed, so 
Judy’s pretty blossoms of kindness and unselfish- 
ness and truthfulness, which were all really there^ 
were choked and withered by this poisonous habit 
of grumbling. 

I do not really remember what it was she was 
grumbling at this particular morning. I dare say 
it was that the roads were muddy, for it was 
autumn, and Judy’s home was in the country. 
Or, possibly, it was only that nurse had told her 
to walk a little quicker, and that immediately her 
boots began to hurt her, or the place on her heel 
where once there had been a chilblain got sore, 
or the elastic of her hat was too loose, and her 
hat came flopping down on to her face. It might 
have been any of these things. Whatever it was, 
it was “too bad.” That^ whenever Miss Judy was 
concerned, you might be quite, quite sure of. 

They were returning home from rather a long 
walk. It was autumn, as I said, and there had 
been a week or two of almost constant rain, and 
certainly country lanes are not very pleasant at 
such times. If Judy had not grumbled so at 
everything, she might have been forgiven for this 



« 



“What are you staring at so?” she said, sharply. — p. 123 , 





TOO BAD. 


123 


special grumble (if it was about the roads), I do 
think. It was getting chilly and raw, and the 
clouds looked as if the rain was more than half 
thinking of turning back on its journey to 
“Spain,” or wherever it was it had set off to. 
Nurse hurried on; she was afraid of the little ones 
in the perambulator catching cold, and she could 
not spare time to talk to Miss Judy any longer. 

Judy came after her slowly; they were just 
passing some cottages, and at the door of one of 
them stood a girl of about Judy’s age, with her 
mouth open, staring at “the little gentry.” She 
had heard what had passed between Judy and her 
nurse, and was thinking it over in her own way. 
Suddenly Judy caught sight of her. 

“What are you staring at so?” she said 
sharply. “It’s too bad of you. You are a rude 
little girl. I’ll tell nurse how rude you are.” 

Judy did not generally speak so crossly, 
especially not to poor children, for she had really 
nice feelings about such things, but she was very 
much put out, and ashamed too, that her ill- 
natured words to nurse should have been over- 
heard, so she expressed her vexation to the first 
object that came in her way. The little girl did 


124 


TELL ME A STORY. 


not leave off staring at her; in fact she did so 
harder than before. But she answered Judy 
gently, growing rather red as she did so ; and 
Judy felt her irritation cool. 

“I didn’t mean no offence,” she said. “I were 
just looking at you, and thinking to be sure how 
nice you had everything, and a-wondering how 
it could be as you weren’t pleased.” 

“Who said I wasn’t pleased?” said Judy. 

“You said as something was a deal too bad,” 
replied the child. 

“Well, so it was, — it must have been, I mean, 
— or else I wouldn’t have said, so,” answered 
Judy, who, to tell the truth, had by this time 
quite forgotten what particular trouble had been 
the cause of her last grumble. “How do you 
mean that I have everything so nice?” 

“Your things, miss — your jacket and your 
frock, and all them things. And you live in 
such a fine house, and has servants to do for 
you and all. O my! wouldn’t I change with 
you. Nothing would never be too bad for me if 
I was you, miss.” 

“I dare say you think so,” said Judy impor- 
tantly, “but that just shows that you don’t know 


TOO BAD. 


125 




better. I can tell you I have a great, great many 
troubles and things to bear that you have no 
idea of. Indeed, I dare say you are far happier 
than I. You are not bothered about keeping your 
frocks clean, and not getting your feet wet, and 
all those horrible things. And about lessons — I 
dare say you have no trouble at all about lessons. 
You don’t go to school, do you?” 

“Not now, miss. It’s more than six months 
since I’ve been. Mother’s wanted me so badly to 
mind baby. Father did say as perhaps I should go 
again for a bit come Christmas,” answered the little 
girl, who was growing quite at ease with Judy. 

“And do you like going?” said Judy. 

“ Pretty well, but it’s a long walk — winter 
time ’specially,” said the child; “not but what 
most things is hard then to them as lives in 
places like ours. ’Tisn’t like for you, miss, with 
lots of fires, and no need for to go out if it’s 
cold or wet.” 

“ Indeed I have to go out very often — indeed, 
always almost when I don’t want,” retorted Judy. 
“Not that I should mind the walk to school. I 
should like it; it would be far nicer than horrid 
lessons at home, cooped up in the same room all 


126 


TELL ME A STORY. 


the time, with no change. You don’t understand 
a bit; I am quite mre you haven’t as many 
troubles as I.” 

The little girl smiled, but hardly seemed con- 
vinced. “Seems to me, miss, as if you couldn’t 
hardly know, unless you tried, what things is 
like in places like ours,” she said. 

But before Judy could reply, a voice from 
inside the cottage called out, “ Betsy, my girl, 
what are you about so long? Father’ll be in 
directly, and there’s the tea to see to.” 

The voice was far from unkind, but its effect 
on Betsy was instantaneous. 

“I must go, miss,” she said; “mother’s call- 
ing;” and off she ran. 

“How nice and funny it must be to set the 
tea for her father,” thought Judy, as she walked 
on. “/ should like that sort of work. What a 
silly girl she is not to see how much fewer 
troubles she has than I. I only wish ” — 

“ What did you say you wished?” interrupted a 
voice that seemed to come out of the hedge, so 
suddenly did its owner appear before Judy. 

“I didn’t say I wished anything — at least I 
didn’t know I was speaking aloud,” said the 


TOO BAD. 


127 


little girl, as soon as she found voice to reply. 

The person who had spoken to her was a little 
old woman, with a scarlet cloak that nearly 
covered her. She had a basket on her arm, and 
looked as if she was returning from market. 
There was n'othing very remarkable about her, 
and yet Judy felt startled and a little frightened, 
she did not quite know why. 

“I didn’t know I was speaking aloud,” she 
repeated, staring half timidly at the old woman. 

“Didn’t you?” she replied. “Well, now I 
think of it, I don’t remember saying that you 
did. There’s more kinds of speaking than with 
tongue and words. What should you say if I 
were to tell you what it was you were wishing 
just now?” 

“I don’t know,” said Judy, growing more 
alarmed. “I think, please, I had better run on. 
Nurse will be wondering where I am.” 

“You didn’t think of that when you were 
standing chattering to little Betsy just now,” 
said the old woman. 

“Did you hear us?” asked Judy, her astonish- 
ment almost overcoming her alarm. “Where were 
you standing? I didn’t see you.” 


128 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“I dare say not. There’s many things besides 
what you see, my dear. For instance, you don’t 
see why Betsy should think it would be a fine 
thing to be you, and perhaps Betsy doesn’t see 
why you should think it would be a fine thing to 
be in her place instead of in your own.” 

Judy’s eyes opened wider and wider. “Did 
you hear all that?” she exclaimed. 

The old woman smiled. 

“So you really would like to be Betsy for a 
change?” she said. 

“Not exactly for a change^’''' answered Judy. 
“It isn’t that I am tired of being myself, but I 
am sure no other little girl in the world has so 
many troubles ; that is why I would rather be 
Betsy. You have no idea what troubles I have,” 
she went on, “ and I can never do anything I 
like. It’s always ‘Miss Judy, you must,’ or 
‘Miss Judy, you mustn’t,’ all day long. And if 
ever I am merry for a little, then nurse tells me 
I shall wake baby. O! he is such a cross baby!” 

“And do you think Betsy^s baby brothers and 
sisters are never cross?” inquired the old woman. 

“O no, I dare say they are; but then she’s 
allowed to scold them and punish them, and I may 


TOO BAD. 


129 


never say anything, however tiresome the little 
ones are. If I might put baby in the corner 
when he is naughty, I would soon cure him. 
But I may never do anything I want; it’s too bad.” 

“Poor thing, poor thing! it is too bad, a great 
deal too bad. I do feel for you,” said the old 
woman. 

But when Judy looked up at her there was a 
queer twinkle in her eyes, which made her by no 
means sure whether she was laughing at her or 
not. The little girl felt more than half inclined 
to be affronted, but before she had time to decide 
the point, the old woman interrupted her. 

“Look here, my dear,” she said, lifting up the 
lid of the basket on her arm; “to show you 
that I am in earnest, see what I will do for 
you. Here is a nice rosy-cheeked apple; put it 
into your pocket, and don’t let any one see it, 
and when you are in bed at night, if you are 
still of the same mind about being Betsy instead 
of yourself, just take a bite of the apple, then 
turn round and go to sleep, and in the morning 
you shall see what you shall see.” 

Half hesitatingly, Judy put out her hand for 
the apple. 


130 


TELL ME A STORY. 


“Thank you very much,” she said, “but” — 

“But what?” said the old woman rather 
sharply. 

“Must I always be Betsy, if I try being her?” 

“Bless the child, what will she have?” 
exclaimed the old woman. “No, you needn’t go 
on being Betsy if you don’t want. Keep the 
apple, take care you don’t lose it, and when 
you’ve had enough of a change, take another bite. 
But after that, remember the apple can do no 
more for you.” 

“I dare say I shall not want it to do anything 
for me once I have left off being myself,” said 
Judy. “Oh, how nice it will be not to have 
nurse ordering me about all day long, and not to 
be bothered about keeping my frock clean, and to 
have no lessons ! ” 

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said the old woman. 
“Now, good-bye; you won’t see me again till you 
want me.” 

“ Good-bye, and thank ” — “ thank you very 
much,” she was going to have said, holding out her 
hand as she spoke — for remember she was not a 
rude or ill-mannered little girl b}^ any means — 
but, lo and behold, there was nobody there! the 


TOO BAD. 


131 


old woman had disappeared! Judy rubbed her 
eyes, and stared about her in every direction, but 
there was nothing to be seen — nothing, that is 
to say, in the least like an old woman, only some 
birds hopping about quite unconcernedly, and a 
tiny field-mouse, who peeped up at Judy for an 
instant with its bright little eyes, and then 
scurried off to its hole. 

It was growing late and dusk, the mists were 
creeping up from the not far distant sea, and the 
hills were thinking of putting on their night- 
caps, and retiring from view. Judy felt a little 
strange and “eerie,” as she stood there alone in 
the lane. She could almost have fancied she had 
been dreaming, but there was the rosy-cheeked 
apple in her hand, proof positive to the contrary. 
So Judy decided that the best thing she could do 
was to run home as fast as she could, and con- 
sider at her leisure if she should make use of the 
little old woman’s gift. 

It was nearly dark when she reached the 
garden gate — at least the trees on each side of 
the carriage-drive made it seem so. Judy had 
never been out so late alone before, and she felt 
rather frightened as to what nurse would say. 


132 


TELL ME A STORY. 


The side door was open, so she ran in, and went 
straight up to the nursery. Just as she got 
upstairs she met nurse, her shawl and bonnet on, 
her kind old face looking hot and anxious. At 
sight of the truant she stopped short. 

“So there you are. Miss Judy,” she exclaimed; 
“and a nice fright you’ve given me. It’s my 
turn to speak about ‘too bad ’ now^ I think. It 
really was too bad of you to stay behind like 
that, and me never thinking but w’hat you were 
close behind till this moment; at least, that you 
had come in close behind, and had stayed down 
in the drawing-room for a little. You’ve fright- 
ened me out of my wits, you naughty child; and 
if only your mamma was at home, I would go 
straight downstairs, and tell her it’s more than 
I can put up with.” 

“ It’s more than I can put up with to be 
scolded so for nothing,” said Judy crossly, and 
with a tone in her voice new to her, and which 
rather took nurse aback. She had not meant to 
be harsh to the child, but she had been really 
frightened, and, as is often the case, on finding 
there had been no cause for her alarm, a feeling 
of provocation took its place. 


TOO BAD. 


133 


“You should not speak so, Miss Judy,” she 
said quietly, for she was wise enough not to 
wish to irritate the little girl, whom she truly 
loved, further. 

But Judy was not to be so easily pacified. 

“It’s too bad,” she began as usual; “it’s a 
great deal too bad, that I should never be allowed 
to do the least thing I want; to be scolded so 
for nothing at all — just staying out for two or 
three minutes;” and she “banged about” the 
nursery, dragging her hat off, and kicking her 
boots into the corner in an extremely indignant 
manner. 

Nurse felt much distressed. To Judy’s grum- 
bling she was accustomed, but this was worse 
than grumbling. “What can have come over the 
child?” she said to herself, but to Judy she 
thought it best to say nothing at all. All 
through tea Judy looked far from amiable; she 
hardly spoke, though a faint “Too bad” was now 
and then heard from her direction. Poor nurse 
had not a very pleasant time of it, for the 
“cross” infection spread, as, alas! it is too apt to 
do, and little Lena, Judy’s four-years-old sister, 
grew peevish and discontented, and pinched 


134 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Master Baby, in return for which he, as was to 
be expected, set up a dismal howl. 

“Naughty, horrid little things!” said Judy. 
“If I had my way with them, they should both 
be whipped and put to bed.” 

“Hush, Miss Judy!” said nurse. “If you 
would be pleasant and help to amuse them, they 
would not be so cross.” 

“I’ve something else to do than to amuse such 
ill-natured little things,” said Judy. 

“Well, I should think it was time you learnt 
your lessons for to-morrow,” said nurse. “We’ve 
had tea so late, it will soon be time for you to 
be dressed to go down to the drawing-room to 
your papa. There are some gentlemen dining 
with him to-night.” 

“I can’t bear going down when mamma’s 
away,” said Judy. “It’s too bad of her to go 
away and leave us.” 

“For shame. Miss Judy, to speak so, when you 
know that it’s only because your poor aunt is so 
ill that your mamma had to go away. Now get 
your books, there’s a good girl, and do your 
lessons.” 

“I’m not going to do them,” said Judy, with 


TOO BAD. 


135 


sudden resolution. “I needn’t unless I like. I 
don’t think I shall ever do any more. It’s too 
bad I should never have a minute of time to 
myself.” 

Nurse really began to think the little girl must 
be going to be ill. Never, in all her experience 
of her, had she known her so cross. It was the 
same all the evening. Judy grumbled and 
stormed at everything; she would not stand still 
to have her hair brushed, or her pretty w^hite 

muslin frock fastened ; and when she came 

upstairs she was more ill pleased than before, 

because, just as she was beginning to amuse 

herself with some pictures, her papa told her he 
thought it was time for little girls to be in bed. 
How often, while she was being undressed, she 
declared that something or other was “too bad,” I 
really could not undertake to say. She grumbled 
at her nice warm bath, she grumbled at her hair 
being combed out, she grumbled at having to go 
to bed when she wasn’t “the least bit sleepy,” 
she grumbled at everything and everybody, herself 
included, for she came to the resolution that she 
really would not be herself any longer! No 
sooner had nurse and the candle left the room 


136 


TELL ME A STOEY. 


than Judy drew out the apple, which, while nurse 
was not looking, she had managed to hide under 
her pillow, took a good big bite of it, turned 
round on her side, and notwithstanding that her 
little heart was beating much faster than usual, 
half with excitement, half with fear, at what she 
had done, in two minutes she was sound asleep. 

Chapter II. 

“Betsy, Betsy girl, it’s time you were stirring. 
Up with you, child; you must look sharp.” 

What voice was that? who could it be, shouting 
so loudly, and waking her up in the middle of 
the night? Judy for a moment felt very indig- 
nant, but she was extremely sleepy, and deter- 
mined to think she was dreaming; so she turned 
round, and was just dozing off, when again she 
heard the cry: 

“Betsy, Betsy, wake up with thee. Whatever’s 
come to the child this morning?” 

The voice seemed to come nearer and nearer, 
and at last a thump on the wall, close to Judy’s 
head, it seemed to her, fairly startled her awake. 

“Up with thee, child,” sounded close to her 


TOO BAD. 


137 


ear. “Baby’s been that cross all night I’ve had 
scarce a wink o’ sleep. Thee mustn’t lie snoring 
there.” 

Suddenly all returned to Judy’s memory. She 
was not herself; she was Betsy. 

“I’m coming,” she called out, hardly knowing 
what she was saying; and then the person on the 
other side of the wall seemed to be satisfied, for 
Judy now heard her walking about, clattering 
fire-irons and pots and pans, evidently employed 
in tidying the kitchen. 

It was still what Judy thought quite dark. 
She had some idea of calling for a light, but 
whom to call to she did not know. So, feeling 
very strange and rather frightened, she got 
timidly out of bed, and by the little light that 
came in at the small square window, began to 
look about her. What a queer little place it 
was! Not a room really, only a sort of “lean-to” 
at one side of the kitchen, barely large enough 
for the narrow, rickety little bedstead, and one 
old chair that stood beside it, answering several 
purposes besides its proper one, for on it was 
placed a cracked basin and jug, and a tiny bit 
of looking-glass, without a frame, fastened by a 


138 


TELL ME A STORY. 


piece of string to the only remaining bar. 
Betsy’s clothes lay in the bed, which was but 
poorly provided with proper blankets — the sheets 
were clean — everything in the place was as clean 
as poverty can be, and indeed Betsy Avas, and 
considered herself to be, a very fortunate little 
girl for having a “room” of her own at all; but 
to Judy, Judy who had had no training like 
Betsy’s, Judy who found every crumple in a rose- 
leaf “too bad,” Judy who knew as little of other 
people’s lives and other people’s troubles as the 
man in the moon, — you can fancy, my dears, how 
the room of which little Betsy was so proud 
looked to Judy I But she had a spirit of her 
own, ready though she was to grumble. With a 
little shiver, she began to try to dress herself in 
the Avell-mended clothes, so different from her 
own daintily-trimmed little garments — for wash- 
ing she felt to be out of the question ; it was 
really too cold, and besides there were no soap, or 
sponges, or towels to be seen. 

“I don’t care,” she said to herself stoutly, as 
she wriggled first into one garment and then into 
another. “I don’t care. Anyway I shall have 
no lessons to learn, and I shall not be bothered 


TOO BAD. 


139 


about keeping my frock clean. But I do wish 
the fairy had left me my own hair,” she went 
on regretfully, examining the thick dark locks 
that hung round her face, and kept tumbling into 
her eyes, “my hair is much nicer. I don’t believe 
Betsy ever has hers properly brushed, it is so 
tuggy. And what brown hands I’ve got, and 
such crooked nails. I wonder if Betsy’s mother 
will cut them for me; I wonder if” — 

She was interrupted by another summons. 

“ Betsy, girl, what are you after this morning ? 
. I be getting downright cross with you, child. 
There’s father’ll be back for breakfast directly, 
and you not helped me by a hand’s turn this 
blessed morning.” 

Judy started. She only stopped to fasten the 
last button of her little dark cotton frock, and 
calling out, “I’m coming,” opened the rough door 
of the little bed-room, and found herself in the 
kitchen. There sat Betsy’s mother, with the baby 
on her knee, and the baby but one tumbling 
about at her feet, while she vainly tried to fasten 
the frock of another little fellow of three, who 
sturdily refused to stand still. 

“You must finish dressing Jock,” she said, on 


140 


TELL ME A STOEY. 


catching sight of Judy; “Jock’s a naughty boy, 
won’t stand still for mammy to dress him; 
naughty Jock,” she continued, giving him a little 
shake as she got up, which sent him howling 
across the room to Judy. “It’s too bad of you, 
Betsy, to be so lazy this morning, and me so 
tired with no sleep, and the little ones all crying; 
if I tell father he’ll be for giving it thee, lass, to 
make thee stir about a bit quicker.” 

“He’ll give me whatV'' said Judy, perplexed. 
“I don’t understand.” 

“Hold thy tongue; I’ll have none of that 
answering back, child,” said Betsy’s mother, tired 
and out of patience, poor woman, though you 
must not think she was either harsh or unkind, 
for she was a very kind, good mother. 

“Jock, let me dress you,” said Judy, turning 
to the little boy, with a vague idea that it would 
be rather amusing to act nurse to him. Jock 
came towards her willingly enough, but Judy 
found the business less easy than she had 
expected. There was a button missing on his 
little petticoat, which she did not find out in 
time to prevent her fastening it all crooked; and 
when she tried to undo it again, Jock’s patience 


TOO BAD. 


141 


was exhausted, and he went careering round the 
kitchen, Judy after him, till the mother in despair 
caught hold of him, and completed the task. 

“Your fingers seem to be all thumbs this morn- 
ing,” she said testily. “You’ve not swep’ up a 
bit, nor made th’ fire, nor nothing. Go and fetch 
water now to fill th’ kettle, or father’ll be in 
afore it’s on the boil.” 

Judy turned to the fireplace, and, with some 
difficulty, managed to lug the heavy old kettle as 
far as the front door. Just outside stood the 
pump, but try as she might she could not get the 
water to flow. She was ready to cry with vexa- 
tion, pumping had always seemed such nice easy 
work; she had often watched the children of these 
very cottages filling their kettles and jugs, and 
had envied them the fun; but now when she had 
it to do she found it very different — very poor 
fun, if indeed fun at all! At last she got the 
water to begin to come, a poor miserable little 
trickle; at this rate the kettle would never be 
filled, and her tears were preparing to descend, 
when a rough hearty voice made her jump. It 
was Betsy’s father. 

“Pump’s stiff this morning, is it, my lass?” he 


142 


TELL ME A STORY. 


called out as lie came up the path. “Let’s have 
a hand at it;” and with his vigorous pull the 
water quickly appeared. He lifted the kettle 
into the kitchen, greatly to Judy’s relief; but 
Betsy’s mother took a different view of the 
matter. 

“I don’t know what’s come to Betsy this 
morning,” she said. “Lazy’s no word for her. 
The porridge is ready, but there’ll he no time to 
make thee a cup of coffee, father. She’s been 
close upon a quarter of an hour filling the kettle, 
and baby’s so cross this morning I can’t put her 
down.” 

“I must make my breakfast of porridge then,” 
said the father; “but Betsy, girl, it’s new for 
thee to be lazy, my lass.” 

Judy felt humbled and mortified, but she said 
nothing. Somehow she felt as if she could not 
defend herself, though she knew she had honestly 
done her best. The words “too bad” rose to her. 
lips, but she did not utter them. She began to 
wonder how little Betsy managed to get through her 
daily tasks, easy as she had imagined them to be. 

The porridge was not much to her taste, but 
she tried to eat it. Perhaps it was not so much 


TOO BAD. 


143 


the porridge itself, for it was good of its kind, 
which took away her appetite, as the want of the 
many little things to which she was so accus- 
tomed that their absence made her for the first 
time think of them at all. The nice white table- 
cloth and silver spoons on the nursery table, the 
neat, pretty room, and freshly dressed little 
brothers and sisters — all were very different from 
the rough board, and the pewter spoons, and 
Betsy’s father and big brothers hurriedly devour- 
ing the great bowls of porridge, while the three 
little ones cried or quarrelled incessantly. “After 
all,” thought Judy, “perhaps it is a good thing 
to have rather a strict nurse, even if she is very 
fussy about being neat and all that.” 

But yet she felt very sorry for Betsy’s mother, 
when she looked at her thin, careworn face, and 
noticed how patient she was with the babies, and 
how cheerfully she answered all “father’s” 
remarks. And there began to dawn in the 
little girl’s mind a faint idea that perhaps there 
were troubles and difficulties in the world such 
as she had never dreamt of, that there are a good 
many “too bads” in other people’s lots as well as 
in Miss Judy’s. 


144 


TELL ME A STORY. 


Breakfast over, her troubles began again. It 
was washing-day, and just as she was looking 
forward to a ramble in the fields in glorious 
independence of nurse’s warnings about spoiling 
her frock, her dreams were put an end to by 
Betsy’s mother’s summoning her to take her 
place at the tub. And oh, my dears, real washing 
is very different work from the dolls’ laundressing 
— standing round a wash-hand basin placed on a 
nursery chair, and wasting ever so much beautiful 
honey-soap in nice clean hot water, and then 
when the little fat hands are all “crumply” and 
puffy “like real washerwomen’s,” rinsing out the 
miniature garments in still nicer clean cold water, 
and hanging them round the nursery guard to 
dry, and most likely ending up by coaxing nurse 
to clear away all the mess you have made, and to 
promise to let you iron dolly’s clean clothes the 
next wet afternoon — which you think so delight- 
ful. Judy’s arms ached sorely, sorely, and her 
head ached too, and she felt all steamy and hot 
and weary, when at last her share of it was over, 
and, “for a change,” she was instructed to take 
the two youngest out for a walk up the lane, 
while mother boiled the potatoes for dinner. 


TOO BAD. 


145 


The babies were very tiresome, and though 
Judy was quite at liberty to manage them in her 
own way, and to punish them as she had never 
ventured to punish Lena and Harry at home, she 
did not find it of much use. She wondered 
“how ever the real Betsy did;” and I fancy the 
babies too wondered a good deal in their own 
way as to what had come over their big sister 
to-day. Altogether the walk was very far from a 
pleasure to any of the three, and when at last 
Judy managed to drag her weary self, and her 
two hot, cross little charges home again to the 
cottage, she was by no means in an amiable 
humour. She would have liked to sit down and 
rest, and she would have liked to wash her face 
and hands, and brush her hair — Judy who at 
home always grumbled at nurse’s summons to 
“come and be tidied” — but there was no time 
for anything of the kind. Dinner — the potatoes, 
that is to say — was ready, and the table must be 
set at once, ready for father and the boys, and 
Betsy’s mother told her to “look sharp and bustle 
about,” in a way that Judy felt to be really a 
great deal “too bad.” She was hungry, however, 
and ate her share of potatoes, flavoured with a 


146 


TELL ME A STORY. 


little dripping and salt, with more appetite than 
she had sometimes felt for roast mutton and rice 
pudding, though all the same she would have 
been exceedingly glad of a little gravy, or even a 
plateful of sago pudding, which generally was by 
no means a favourite dish of hers. 

“Me and the boys won’t be home till late,” 
said the father, as he rose to go; “there’s a piece 
o’ work master wants done this week, and he’ll 
pay us extray to stay a couple of hours. Betsy 
must bring us our tea.” 

Judy’s spirits rose. She would have a walk 
by herself anyway, unplagued by babies, and the 
idea of it gave her some patience for the after- 
noon’s task of darning stockings, which she found 
was expected of her. Just at first the darning 
was rather amusing, but after a while she began 
to be sadly tired of it. It was very different 
from sitting still for a quarter of an hour, with 
nurse patiently instructing her, and praising her 
whenever she did well ; these stockings were so 
very harsh and coarse, and the holes were so 
enormous, and the basketful so huge! 

“I’ll never get them done,” she exclaimed at last. 
“I think it’s too bad to make a little girl like 


TOO BAD. 


147 


me or Betsy do such hard work; and I think her 
father and brothers must make holes in their horrid 
stockings on purpose, I do. I’ll not do any more.” 

She shoved the basket into a corner, and looked 
about for amusement. The babies were asleep, 
and Jock was playing in a corner, and mother, 
poor body, was still busy in the wash-house — 
Judy could find nothing to play with. There 
were no books in the cottage, except an old 
Farmers' Almanac^ a Bible and Prayer-book, and 
one or two numbers of a People's Miscellany^ 
which Judy looked into, but found she could not 
understand. How she wished for some of her 
books at home! Even those she had read two or 
three times through, and was always grumbling at 
in consequence, would have been a great treasure; 
even a history or geography book would have been 
better than nothing. 

Suddenly the clock struck, and Betsy’s mother 
called out from the wash-house, 

“It’s three o’clock — time for you to be going 
with the tea. Set the kettle on, Betsy, and I’ll 
come and make it and cut the bread. It’ll take 
you more nor half-an-hour to walk to Farmer 
Maxwell’s where they’re working this week.” 


148 


TELL ME A STOKY. 


Judy was staring out of the window. “It’s 
beginning to rain,” she said dolefully. 

“Well, what if it is,” replied Betsy’s mother, 
“Father and boys can’t want their tea because 
it’s raining. Get thy old cloak, child. My good- 
ness me ! ” she went on, as she came into the 
kitchen, “she hasn’t got the kettle on yet? 
Betsy, it’s too bad of thee, it is for sure, there’s 
not a thing but what’s been wrong to-day.” 

Judy’s conscience pricked her about the stock- 
ings, so, without attempting to defend herself, she 
fetched the old cloak she had seen hanging in 
Betsy’s room, and, drawing the hood over her 
head, stood meekly waiting, while the mother cut 
the great hunches of bread, made the tea, and 
poured it into the two tin cans, which the little 
girl was to carry to the farm. 

It did not rain much when she first set off, so 
though it was a good two miles’ walk, she was 
only moderately wet when she got to the farm. 
One of the boys was on the look-out for her, or 
rather for their tea, which he at once took posses- 
sion of and ran off with, advising Judy to make 
haste home, it was going to rain like blazes. 
But poor Judy found it no easy matter to follow 


TOO BAD. 


149 


his counsel; her arms were still aching with the 
weight of the baby in the morning, and her wrist 
was chafed with the handle of one of the tin 
pails, which she could not manage otherwise to 
carry, the old cloak was poor protection against 
the driving rain, and, worst of all, Betsy’s old 
boots had several holes in them, and a sharp 
stone had made its way through the sole of the 
left one, cutting and hurting her foot. She 
stumbled along for some way, feeling very miser- 
able, till at last, quite unable to go farther, she 
sat down under the hedge, and burst into tears. 

“So you haven’t found things quite so pleasant 
as you expected, eh. Miss Judy? You don’t find 
walking in Betsy’s shoes quite such an easy 
matter after all?” said a voice at her side; and, 
looking up, lo and behold! there, standing before 
her, Judy saw the old woman with the scarlet cloak. 

“I don’t think it is kind of you to laugh at 
me,” she sobbed. 

“It’s ‘too bad,’ is it, eh. Miss Judy?” 

Judy sobbed more vigorously, but did not answer. 

“Come, now,” said the old woman kindly. 
“Let’s talk it over quietly. Are you beginning 
to understand that other people’s lives have 


150 


TELL ME A STORY. 


troubles and difficulties as well as yours — that 
little Betsy, for instance, might find things Hoo 
bad ’ a good many times in the course of the 
day, if she was so inclined?” 

“Yes,” said Judy humbly. 

“And on the Avhole,” continued the fairy, “you 
would rather be yourself than any one else — eh. 
Miss Judy?” 

“Oh yes, yes, a great deal rather,” said Judy 
eagerly. “Mayn’t I be myself again now this 
very minute, . and go home to tea in the nursery ? 
Oh, I would so like! It seems ever so long since 
I saw Lena and Harry and nurse, and you said 
yesterday I needn’t keep on being Betsy if I 
didn’t like.” 

“Not quite so fast, my dear,” said the old 
woman. “It’s only four o’clock; you must finish 
the day’s work. Go back to the cottage and wait 
patiently till bedtime, and then — you know what 
to do — you haven’t lost your apple?” 

“No,” said Judy, feeling in her pocket. “I 
have it safe.” 

“That’s all right. Now jump up, my dear, and 
hasten home, or Betsy’s mother will be wondering 
what has become of you.” 


TOO BAD. 


151 


Judy got up slowly. “I’m so wet,” she said, 
“and oh! my foot’s so sore. These horrible boots! 
I think it’s too” — 

“Hush!” said the fairy. “How would you 
like me to make you stay as you are, till you 
quite leave off that habit of grumbling. I’m 
not sure but what it would be a good thing for 
her,” she added, consideringly, as if thinking 
aloud. 

“O no, please don’t,” said Judy, “please, please 
don’t. I do beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to 
say it, and I wonH say it any more.” 

“Then off with you; your foot won’t be so 
bad as you think,” said the fairy. 

“Thank you,” replied Judy, fancying already 
that it hurt her less. She had turned to go when 
she stopped. 

“Well,” said the old woman, “what’s the 
matter now?” 

“Nothing,” answered Judy, “but only I was 
thinking, if I am myself again to-morrow morn- 
ing, and Betsy’s Aerself, what will they all 
think? nurse and all, I mean; and if I try to 
explain, I’m sure they’ll never believe me — 
they’ll say I’m talking nonsense. Nurse always 


152 


TELL ME A STORY. 


says ‘rubbish ’ if we make up fairy stories, or 
anything like that.” 

The old woman smiled curiously. 

“Many wiser people than nurse think that 
‘rubbish’ settles whatever they don’t understand,” 
she said. “But never you mind, Judy. You 
needn’t trouble your head about what any one 
will think. No one ever will be the wiser but 
you and I. When Betsy wakes in her own little 
bed in the morning, she will only think she has 
had a curious dream — a dream, perhaps, which 
will do her no harm — and nurse will think noth- 
ing but that Miss Judy has been cured of 
grumbling in a wonderful way. For if you’re not 
cured it will be my turn to say it’s too bad! — 
will it not?” 

“Yes,” said Judy, laughing. “Thank you so 
much, kind fairy. Won’t you come and see me 
again sometimes ? ” 

But the last words were spoken to the air, for 
while Judy was uttering them the old woman had 
disappeared, and only the little field mouse again, 
with bright sparkling eyes, ran across the path, 
looking up fearlessly at Judy as it passed her. 

And Judy never did see the old woman again. 


TOO BAD. 


153 


She went back to the cottage, bearing bravely 
the pain of her wounded foot, which was not so 
very bad after all, and the discomfort of her wet 
clothes. 

And though Betsy’s mother scolded her for 
having been so slow about her errand, she did 
not grumble or complain, but did her best to help 
the poor woman with the evening’s work. All 
the same, I can tell you, she was very glad to 
get to bed at night, and you may be sure she did 
not forget to take a great big bite of her apple. 

“When I am myself again. I’ll spend the six 
shillings I have in my money-box to buy Betsy a 
nice new print frock instead of that ugly old one 
that got so soaked to-day,” was her last thought 
before she fell asleep. 

And oh! my dears, can you imagine how 
delightful it was to find herself in the morning, 
her real own self again? She felt it was almost 
too good to be true. And, since then, it has been 
seldom, if ever, that Miss Judy has been heard to 
grumble, or that anything has been declared to be 
“too bad.” 


CHARLIE’S DISAPPOINTMENT. 


‘ ‘ 0 sweet and blessed country 
That eager hearts expect.” 

One cold winter’s evening about Christmas 
time, Charlie, a little boy of six years old, sat 
reading with his mother. It was Sunday evening, 
and he had been looking at the pictures in his 
“Children’s Bible,” till his mother put down her 
own book and began to read verses to him out of 
his real Bible, in explanation of some of the 
pictures. With one of these especially, Charlie 
was very much pleased. It represented a great 
many people, men and women and children, and 
animals of every kind, all together, looking very 
peaceful and happy in a beautiful garden. 
Charlie could not pronounce the word at the foot 
of the picture; it was so very long. 

“The — what is it, mother?” he asked. 

“The Millennium,” his mother told him, and 
then she went on to explain what this long word 
meant, and read him some strange, beautiful verses 


154 


Charlie’s disappointment. 155 

about it, out of the big Bible. Charlie sat with 
his blue eyes fixed on her, listening to every 
word, and thinking this the most wonderful story 
he had ever heard yet. “And it is not like a 
fairy story, is it mother, for it is in the Bible? 
Oh, I do so wish God would let the Millennium 
come now — immediately — mother, while I am a 
little boy, and you, just like what you are! I 
should not care nearly so much for it if you were 
old, mother, or if I was a big man.” 

“I hope, my darling, the bigger you get the 
more you will care for it,” said his mother. 
Charlie looked puzzled, but seeing that he was 
thinking so deeply, that she feared he would 
think away his sleep (as he sometimes did, and it 
was nearly bed-time), she went to the piano and 
sang his favourite hymn — 

“Jerusalem the golden, 

With milk and honey blest.” 

Charlie listened with delight; and when it was 
over went and kissed his mother for good-night, 
and trotted off to bed, his mind full of the words 
he had been hearing. 

It felt cold at first, in his little crib, and he 
began thinking how nice it would be if the sum- 


156 


TELL ME A STORY. 


mer were back again. But he soon fell asleep. 
It seemed to him that he woke almost in a 
minute, and he felt surprised to see that there 
was already broad daylight in the room. Indeed, 
he felt exceedingly surprised, for these dark 
winter mornings he always woke before dawn, 
and now the sun was shining brightly, as if it 
had been at work for some hours. It looked so 
pleasant and cheerful that he lay still to enjoy 
it. Now I must tell you that Charlie had a baby 
brother, and that both these little boys were taken 
care of by a good old woman who had been nurse 
to their mother when she was a little girl. 
Nurse was very good and kind and true, but I 
must say that sometmes she was very cross. Per- 
haps it was that she was getting old, and that 
little boys teased her, not being always able to 
remember about being gentle and good: that is 
to say, Charlie himself, for the baby was really 
too little either to remember or forget. Nurse’s 
worst time was first thing in the morning ; she 
nearly always had a cross face on when she came 
to wake Charlie, and to tell him to get up. He 
once heard some of the servants saying that nurse 
very often got out of the wrong side of her bed; 


Charlie’s disappoiktment. 157 

and that day he vexed her very much without 
knowing why, for, after thinking a long time 
about what it could mean, he went all round her 
bed to see if there could be any nails or sharp 
pieces of wood sticking out at one side, which 
perhaps hurt her feet as she stepped out. Nurse 
came in while he was examining her bed, and 
when he told her what he was doing, and what 
he had heard Anne say, she was really very angry 
indeed, though he could not see that he had done 
anything naughty. 

But this morning I am telling you about that 
Charlie lay in bed thinking how pretty the sun- 
light was, he was quite surprised to see nurse’s 
face when she came to the bedside to wake him. 
She spoke so sweetly, and really looked quite 
pretty. Her face had such a nice smile and 
looked so kind, and nearly all the wrinkles were 
gone. 

“Dear nurse,” he said, “how nice you look!” 
This seemed to please her still more, for she 
kissed him, and then washed and dressed him, 
without once pulling or pushing him the least 
little bit; just as if she had never felt cross in 
her life. 


158 


TELL ME A STOEY. 


When he was dressed he ran out into the 
garden, and, to his surprise, it was quite changed 
from the night before. The grass was bright and 
green, the trees were all covered with leaves, and 
the whole garden was full of the loveliest flowers 
he had ever seen; and the singing of the birds 
was prettier than he could possibly describe. 
There were many butterflies and other summer 
insects flying about, and making a delicious sort 
of sweet humming, which seemed to join in with 
the birds’ singing. Indeed Charlie could almost 
have believed the flowers themselves were singing, 
for a lovely music filled the whole air, and all 
the musicians, even the grasshoppers, kept in tune 
together in a wonderful way. The song sounded 
to Charlie very like “Jerusalem the Golden,” 
only there were no words. He ran about the 
garden so much, that at last he thought he would 
like a drink of new milk, and he went into the 
yard to look for the dairy-maid. There was no 
one there; but he forgot all about the milk, in 
astonishment at what he saw. “Tiger,” the great 
fierce watch dog, whom his papa would never let 
him go near, was unchained, lying peacefully on 
his back in the sun, and Charlie’s two lovely 


Charlie’s disappointment. 159 

kittens rolling over and over him, Tiger patting 
them gently with his paws, and looking so 
pleased that Charlie almost thought he was smil- 
ing. And more wonderful still, his mother’s pet 
canaries were also loose in the yard, one hopping 
about close to Tiger’s nose, and the other actually 
perched on the back of Muff, the tabby cat, 
whom, all her life, his mother had never succeeded 
in curing of her sad love of eating canary birds. 
Charlie’s first thought was to drive away Muff 
and rescue the birds; but as he ran forward to 
do so. Muff came and rubbed herself gently 
against him with a soft, sweet purr, and the 
canary flew off Muff’s back on to his shoulder, 
where it gave a little trill of pleasure, and then 
flew back again to its friend the cat. Suddenly 
some words flashed into Charlie’s mind: “They 
shall neither hurt nor destroy,” he said slowly, 
and then it all seemed plain to him. “ The 
Millennium has come,” he cried, with inexpressible 
joy, “Oh! how glad I am; I must run and tell 
mother this minute,” and off he set. But as he 
ran towards the house, glancing up, thoughtful 
for others as was his habit, to the window of his 
mother’s room, he saw that the blind was still 


160 


TELL ME A STORY. 


drawn down, and remembered that he must not 
disturb her yet, though his little heart was burst- 
ing with impatience to tell her the beautiful 
news. “I might, anyway, run and tell Lily at 
once,” thought he, and he set off at full speed 
towards the farm where his little friend lived. 
But he had not gone half-way when he recol- 
lected that to get to Lily’s home he must pass 
the smithy, a place he was frightened to go near 
even with his nurse, for Black Tom, the smith, 
was a very terrible person. He was often intoxi- 
cated, and used then to swear most awfully; and, 
indeed, Lily had once told Charlie in confidence 
that her nurse had said she felt pretty sure Black 
Tom would not think anything at all of eating 
little boys and girls. Dreadful as he thought 
him, Charlie could not believe that Black Tom 
was quite as wicked as this; but still he trembled 
as he drew near the smithy. But how amazed he 
felt, when he got within sight of it, to see Tom 
standing at the door, washed and brushed up to 
such an extent, that the child hardly recognised 
his old aversion! 

Tom’s employment was more wonderful still. 
He was playing with Lily, who was sitting 


Charlie’s disappointment. 


161 


perched upon his shoulder, laughing and scream- 
ing with delight. As soon as she saw Charlie 
she slid down, and holding Tom’s great rough 
hand in her tiny one, pulled him along the lane 
towards her little friend. 

“Tom is not exactly a bear or a lion,” thought 
Charlie, with a somewhat misty recollection of 
one of the verses his mother had read to him, 
running in his head; “but he*s quite as fierce, 
and it says ‘A little child shall lead them.’ ” 

“ O Charlie ! ” exclaimed Lily, when she drew 
near, “Tom is so good. I have been riding on 
his back up and down the lane ever so long, and 
do look what a nice, pretty clean face he has 
got!” 

But Charlie felt so eager to explain to Lily 
what he knew to be the cause of this extraor- 
dinary transformation, that he could not wait to 
speak to Tom. 

“Come along the lane with me, Lily,” he said, 
“I have wonderful things to tell you.” 

So the two trotted off together, Tom smiling 
after them. A little up the lane the music of 
the birds and insects, and flowers, which Charlie 
had been hearing all the morning, sounded clearer 


162 


TELL ME A STORY. 


and fuller than ever; and somehow Lily seemed 
to know of herself, without his telling her, all 
about the Millennium having come, even though 
she was such a little girl, only five years old. 

“Isn’t the music beautiful, Lily? Don’t you 
think it is ‘Jerusalem the Golden?’” 

“i" have been thinking all the morning that it 
was ‘There is a happy land,’” replied she, “but 
look, Charlie, at that great white thing coming 
along the road.” Just where they had got to, the 
lane ran into the highway, and looking where 
Lily pointed, Charlie saw the great white thing 
she spoke of, moving towards them. As it came 
nearer they saw that it was a crowd of children, 
of all ages and sizes, dressed alike in pure white, 
which shone in the sun as they marched along. 
They sang as they walked, and Charlie thought 
he heard the words — 

“ For ever and for ever, 

Are clad in robes of white.” 

One little boy, somewhat in advance of the 
others, as soon as he caught sight of Charlie and 
Lily, ran forward to meet them, and Charlie saw 
that it was his friend, little Frank Grey, the 
miller’s son. 


Charlie’s disappointment. 


163 


“ O Charlie ! ” he exclaimed, “ are you there 
already? We were coming to fetch you and Lily. 
You must come with us.” 

“Where are you going to?” said Charlie. 

“Don’t you know?” said Frank. “We are all 
going to meet the Prince, who is coming this 
morning to live among us.” 

“The Prince of Wales, do you mean?” asked 
Charlie. 

“O no!” replied his friend, “a greater Prince 
than he is. The Prince of the Golden City.” 

“Is that the same as ‘Jerusalem the Golden,’ 
do you think?” 

“I dare say it is,” said Frank, “but the Prince 
has a great many names, each more beautiful than 
the other. Some call him the ‘Prince of Peace.’” 

“I know that name,” said little Lily, softly, 
“it is very pretty.” 

“But,” said Charlie, “you are all so beautifully 
dressed. Lily and I must run home for our best 
frocks first.” 

“O no!” said Frank, “you are just as nicely 
dressed as we are.” And Charlie looked down at 
his own clothes and Lily’s, and saw to his sur- 
prise that both their dresses were of pure shining 


164 


TELL ME A STORY. 


white, like those of the other children. It 
puzzled him a good deal, for he felt sure he 
remembered his nurse putting on his little plaid 
stuff coat and brown holland pinafore that morn- 
ing. But a new thought struck him. “Don’t 
you think, Frank, I had better run home and tell 
mother, for fear she should not like me to go?” 

“ O no ! ” again answered Frank ; “ she is mre 
to let you go, for all the boys and girls in the 
country are coming, and we have several more to 
call for still, besides the fathers and mothers 
themselves will soon be coming after us in 
another procession, so you will see your mother 
directly.” 

Quite happy now, Charlie and Lily joined the 
children, marching all in twos and twos, keeping 
time to the music they were singing, which 
Charlie felt sure was “Jerusalem the Golden,” 
though Lily would sing “Happy Land,” for all he 
could say to her. However, it did not matter, 
for it seemed to do just as well, and all their 
voices suited beautifully. They went on as 
happily as could be, not feeling the least tired, 
though it was a good way. Charlie was turning 
to ask Frank some more questions about the 




“Is THAT MY Charlie crying, First Thing on a Monday 

Morning?” — p. 165. 


Charlie’s disappointment. 165 

Prince they were going to meet, when he was 
startled by some one calling him from behind, 
“ Charlie ! Charlie ! ” the voice sounding rather 
sharply, and seeming to jar against the sweet 
singing. He looked round, and there, hastening 
after him was nurse, with, alas! her old face on, 
not the pretty new one. She came on quickly, 
and soon reached him, catching him rather roughly 
by the arm. Charlie gave a cry of distress, and 
— woke! to find himself, poor little boy, in his 
crib on a dull gloomy winter morning, and nurse 
shaking him a little, to wake him, and speaking 
very crossly. It was too much. Six years could 
not bear the terrible contrast, and little Charlie 
sat up in bed and burst into tears. 

“Oh, it’s not true, it’s not true,” he cried, and 
nurse looked crosser than before. 

“The child’s going out of his mind!” ex- 
claimed she, vainly endeavouring to stop his 
tears. His little heart bursting with sorrow, poor 
Charlie got slowly out of bed, and sitting down 
on the floor, shaking with sobs and cold, began 
to try to put on his socks. But just then a tap 
came to the door, and a voice said, “Is that my 
Charlie crying, flrst thing on a Monday morn- 


166 TELL ME A STORY. 

ing?” And Charlie jumped up and ran, all 
shaking and shivering, to his nice warm mother, 
who took him in her arms and carried him off 
just as he was, to dress him in her own room, 
where there was a beautiful fire; and there poor 
Charlie told his story. He could not help crying 
again when he came to the end and tried to 
describe his bitter disappointment. His mother 
did not speak, and he began to fear she was 
displeased; but when he looked up in her face, 
and saw tears in her pretty kind eyes, he knew 
she was not vexed with him. 

“My poor dear little boy,” she said, and then 
she comforted him so sweetly that the tears went 
away. And after breakfast she talked to Charlie 
again about the Millennium, and explained about 
it a little more to him. She said he must not be 
unhappy because his dream was not true, for she 
thought it was a beautiful dream, and there was 
one way in which he might make it true. Little 
boy though he was, there need be no delay in his 
welcoming the Prince of Peace into the country 
of his own heart, and year by year devoting 
himself more and more earnestly to that blessed 
service, till in God’s own good time he should be 


CHABLIE^S DiSAPPOlNTMENl?. 16 ? 

one of the happy dwellers in the “Golden City” 
above. 

So that, after all, Charlie’s wonderful dream 
did not remain the source of sorrow and dis- 
appointment to him. And I think it was one of 
the things that helped him to grow up a good 
man, for he never forgot it. One special good 
result it had, I know. It roused an interest in 
Black Tom, whom every one had feared and 
hated, and no one had ever tried to love, which 
never rested till gradually, and by slow degrees, 
the poor smith became a very different being 
from the fierce man who had been the terror of 
Charlie’s childhood. 


THE END. 






There avas Baby, seated on the Grass, One Arm fondly clasping Minet’s 
Neck, while avith the Other he firmly held the 
Famous Money-Box. — p. 146. 


Frontispiece 




THE ADVENTUEES 


HEEE BABY 


BY 

MRS. MOLESWORTH 

AUTHOR OF “carrots,” “grandmother dear,” “us,” etc. 


“ I have a boy of five years old ; 

His face is fair and fresh to see.” 

Wordsworth 


ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER CRANE 


Nfto gork 

MACMILLAN AND CO. 

AND LONDON 

1893 


All rights reserved 


First printed (4to) i88i. 

Reprinted (Globe 8vo) 1886, 1887, 1890, 1892. 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERE BABY. 


CHAPTER I. 

FOUR YEARS OLD. 

“ I was four yesterday ; when I’m quite old 
I’ll have a cricket-ball made of pure gold ; 

I’ll never stand up to show that I’m grown; 

I’ll go at liberty upstairs or down.” 

He trotted upstairs. Perhaps trotting is not 
quite the right word, but I can’t find a better. 
It wasn’t at all like a horse or pony trotting, for 
he went one foot at a time, right foot first, and 
when right foot was safely landed on a step, up 
came left foot and the rest of Baby himself after 
right foot. It took a good while, but Baby didn’t 
mind. He used to think a good deal while he 
was going up and down stairs, and it was not his 
way to be often in a hurry. There was one 
thing he could not bear, and that was any one 
trying to carry him upstairs. Oh, that did vex 


1 


2 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


him! His face used to get quite red, right up to 
the roots of his curly hair, and down to the edge 
of the big collar of his sailor suit, for he had 
been put into sailor suits last Christmas, and, if 
the person who was lifting him up didn’t let go 
all at once, Baby would begin to wriggle. He 
was really clever at wriggling; even if you knew 
his way it was not easy to hold him, and with 
any one that didn’t know his way he could get 
off in half a minute. 

But this time there was no one about, and 
Baby stumped on — yes that is a better word — 
Baby stumped on, or up, “ wifout nobody teas- 
ing.” His face was grave, very grave, for inside 
the little house of which his two blue eyes were 
the windows, a great deal of work was going on. 
He was busy wondering about, and trying to 
understand, some of the strange news he had 
heard downstairs in the drawing-room. 

“Over the sea,” he said to himself. “Him 
would like to see the sea. Auntie said over the 
sea in a boat, a werry big boat. Him wonders 
how big.” 

And his mind went back to the biggest boat he 
had ever seen, which was in the toy-shop at 


FOUE YEARS OLD. 


3 


Brookton, when he had gone with his mother to 
be fitted for new boots. But even that wouldn’t 
be big enough. Mother, and auntie, and grand- 
father, and Celia, and Fritz, and Denny, and cook, 
and Lisa, and Thomas, and Jones, and the other 
servants, and the horses, and — and — Baby 
stopped to take breath inside, for though he had 
not been speaking aloud he felt quite choked 
with all the names coming so fast. “And pussy, 
and the calanies, and the Bully, and Fritz’s dor- 
mice, oh no, them couldn^t all get in.” Perhaps 
if Baby doubled up his legs underneath he might 
squeeze himself in, but that would be no good, 
he couldn't go sailing, sailing all over the sea by 
himself, like the old woman in “Harry’s Nursery 
Songs,” who went sailing, sailing, up in a basket, 
“seventy times as high as the moon.” Oh no, 
even that boat wouldn’t be big enough. They 
must have one as big as — and Baby stopped to 
look round. But just then a shout from inside 
the nursery made him wake up, for he had got to 
the last little stair before the top landing, and 
again right foot and half Baby, followed by left 
foot and the other half Baby, stumped on their 
way. 


4 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


They pulled up — right foot and left foot, with 
Baby’s solemn face top of all — at the nursery 
door. It was shut. Now one of the things Baby 
liked to do for himself was to open doors, and 
now and then he could manage it very well. 
But, alas, the nursery lock was too high up for 
him to get a good hold of it. He pulled, and 
pushed, and got quite red, all for no use. Worse 
than that, the pushing and pulling were heard 
inside. Some one came forward and opened the 
door, nearly knocking poor Baby over. 

“Ach, Herr Baby, mine child, why you not say 
when you come?” Lisa cried out. Lisa was 
Baby’s nurse. Her face was rosy and round, and 
she looked very kind. She would have liked to 
pick him up to make sure he had got no knocks, 
but she knew too well that would not do. So all 
she could do was to say again — 

“Mine child — ach, Herr Baby!” 

Baby did not take any notice. 

“Zeally,” he said coolly, “ganfather must do 
somesing to zem locks. Zem is all most dedful 
’tiff.” 

Lisa smiled to herself. She was used to Baby’s 
ways. 


FOUR YEARS OLD. 


5 


“Herr Baby shall grow tall some day,” she 
said. “Zen him can open doors.” 

Lisa’s talking was nearly as funny as Baby’s, 
and, indeed, I rather think that hers had made 
his all the funnier. But, anyway, they under- 
stood each other. He was thinking over what she 
had said, when a scream from the nursery made 
them both turn round in a hurry. 

“O Lisa, O Baby, come in quick, do. Peepy- 
Snoozle has got out of the cage, and he’ll be out 
at the door in another moment. Quick, quick, 
come in and shut the door.” 

Lisa and Baby did not wait to be twice told. 
Inside the nursery there was a great flurry. 
Celia, Fritz, and Denny were all there crawling 
over the floor and screaming at each other. 

“I have him! there — oh, now that’s too bad. 
Fritz, you frightened him away again,” called out 
Celia. 

‘'‘Me frighten him away! Why he knows 
me ever so much better than you girls,” said 
Fritz. 

“He just doesn’t then,” said Denny with 
triumph, “for here he is safe in my apron.” 

But she had hardly said the words when she 


6 


THE AbVENtUE:^S OF HERtl BAB’S^. 


gave a little scream. “He’s off again, oh quick, 
Baby, quick, catch him.” 

How Baby did it, I can’t tell. His hands 
seemed too small to catch anything, even a dor- 
mouse. But catch the truant he did, and very 
proud Baby looked when he held up his two little 
fists, which he had made into a “mouse-trap” 
really^ for the occasion, with Peepy-Snoozle’s 
“coxy” little head and bright beady eyes poking 
out at the top. 

“Oh look, look. Baby’s made Peepy-Snoozle into 
‘the parson in the pulpit that couldn’t say his 
prayers, ’ ” cried Denny, dancing about. 

“All the same, he’d better go back into his 
cage,” said Fritz, who had a right to be heard, as 
he was the master and owner of the dormice. 
“Come along. Baby, poke him in.” 

Baby was busy kissing and petting Peepy- 
Snoozle by this time, for, though he did not 
approve of much of that sort of thing for himself, 
he was very fond of petting little animals, who 
were not little boys. And to tell the truth, it 
was not often he got a chance of petting his big 
brother’s dormice. It was quite pretty to see. the 
way he kissed Peepy-Snoozle’s soft brown head. 



“Oh look, look, Baby’s made Pbepy-Snoozle into ‘the Parson in 
THE Pulpit that couldn’t say his Prayers,’” cried Denny, p. 6. 





FOUR YEARS OLD. 


7 


especially his nose, stroking it gently against his 
own smooth cheeks and chattering to the little 
creature. 

“Dear little darling. Sweet little denkle dar- 
ling,” he said. “Him would like to have a 
house all full of Peepy-’noozles, zem is so sweet 
and soft.” 

“Wouldn’t you like a coat made of their 
skins?” said Denny. “Think how soft that 
would be.” 

“No, sairtin him wouldn’t,” said Baby. “Him 
wouldn’t pull off all their sweet little skins and 
hairs to make him a coat. Denny’s a c’uel girl.” 

“There won’t be much more skin or hairs left 
if you go on scrubbing him up and down with 
your sharp little nose like that,” said Fritz. 

Baby drew back his face in a fright. 

“Put him in the cage then,” he said, and with 
Fritz’s help this was safely done. Then Baby 
stood silent, slowly rubbing his own nose up and 
down, and looking very grave. 

“Him’s nose isn’t sharp,” he said at last, turning 
upon Denny. “Sharp means knifes and scidders.” 

All the children burst out laughing. Of course 
they understood things better than Baby, for even 


8 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


Denny, the youngest next to him, was nine, that 
is twice his age, which by the bye was a puzzle to 
Denny herself, for Celia had teased her one day 
by saying that according to that when Baby was 
eighty Denny would be a hundred and sixty, and 
nobody ever lived to be so old, so how could it be. 

But Denny, though she didn’t always under- 
stand everything herself, was very quick at taking 
up other people if they didn’t. 

“Oh, you stupid little goose,” she said. “Of 
course, Fritz didn’t mean as sharp as a knife. 
There’s different kinds of sharps — there’s differ- 
ent kinds of everything.” 

Baby looked at her gravely. He had his own 
way of defending himself. 

“Werry well. If him’s a goose him won’t talk 
to you, and him won’t tell you somesing werry 
funny and dedful bootiful that him heard in the 
’groind room.” 

All eyes were turned on Baby. 

“Oh, do tell us. Baby darling, do tell us,” said 
Celia and Denny. 

Fritz gave Baby a friendly pat on the back. 

“You’ll tell me, old fellow, won’t you?” he 
said. Baby looked at him. 


FOUR YEARS OLD. 


9 


“Yes,” he said at last; “him will tell you, ’cos 
you let him have Peepy-’noozle, and ’cos you 
doesn’t call him a goose — like girls does. I’ll 
whister in your ear, Fritz, if you’ll bend down.” 

But Celia thought this was too bad. 

“J didn’t call you a goose. Baby,” she said. 
“I think you might tell me too.” 

“And I’ll promise never to call you a goose 
again if you’ll tell me,” said Denny. 

Baby had a great soul. It was beneath him to 
take a mean revenge, he felt, especially on a 
girl! So he shut his little mouth tightly, knit 
his little brows, and thought it over for a moment 
or two. Then his face cleared. 

“Him will tell you all — all you children,” he 
said at last, “but it’s werry long and dedful won- 
derful, and you mustn’t inrumpt him. P’omise?” 

“Promise,” shouted the three. 

“Well then, listen. We’s all goin’ away — 
zeally away — over the sea — dedful far. As far 
as the sky, p’raps.” 

“In a balloon?” said Denny, whose tongue 
wouldn’t keep still even though she was very 
much interested in the news. 

“No, in a boat,” replied Baby, forgetting to 


10 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


notice that this was an “ inrumption, ” “in a 
werry ’normous boat. All’s going. Him was 
looking for ’tamps in mother’s basket of teared 
letters under the little table, and mother and 
ganfather and auntie didn’t know him were there, 
and ganfather said to mother somesing him 
couldn’t understand — somesing about thit house, 
and mother said, yes, ’twould be a werry good 
thing to go away ’fore the cold weather corned, 
and the children would be p’ eased. And auntie 
said she would like to tell the children, but — ” 

Another “ inrumption. ” This time from Fritz. 

“Baby, stop a minute,” he exclaimed. “Celia, 
Denny — Baby’s too little to understand, but,” 
and here Fritz’s round chubby face got very red, 
“don’t you think we’ve no right to let him tell, 
if it’s something mother means to tell us herself? 
She didn’t know Baby was there — he said so.” 

But before Celia or Denny could answer. Baby 
turned upon Fritz. 

“Him tolded you not to inrumpt,” he said, 
with supreme contempt. “ If you would listen 
you would see. Mother did know him was there 
at the ending, for auntie said she’d like to tell 
the children — that’s you, and Denny and Celia — 


FOUR YEARS OLD. 


11 


but him corned out from the little table and said him 
would like to tell the children hisself. And mother 
were dedful surprised, and so was ganfather and 
auntie. And then they all burs ted out laughing and 
told him lots of things — about going in the railway, 
and in a ’normous boat to that other country, where 
there’s cows to pull the carts, and all the people talk 
lubbish-talk, like Lisa when she’s cross. And zen, 
and zen, him corned upstairs to tell you.” 

Baby looked round triumphantly. Celia and 
Fritz and Denny looked first at him and then at 
each other. This was wonderful news — almost 
too wonderful to be true. 

“We must be going to Italy or somewhere like 
that,” said Celia. “How lovely! I wonder why 
they didn’t tell us before?” 

“Italy,” repeated Denny, “that’s the country 
like a boot, isn’t it? I do hope there won’t be 
any snakes. I’d rather far stay at home than go 
where there’s snakes.” 

“/ wouldn’t,” said Fritz, grandly. “I’d like to 
go to India or Africa, or any of those places 
where there’s lots of lions and tigers and snakes, 
and anything you like. Give me a good revolver 
and you'd see.” 


12 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“Don’t talk nonsense, Fritz,” said Celia. 
“You’re far too little a boy for shooting and 
guns and all that. It’s setting a bad example to 
Baby to talk that boasting way, and it’s very 
silly too.” 

“Indeed, miss. Much obliged to you, miss,” 
said Fritz. “I’d onl}- just like to know, miss, 
who it was came to my room the other night and 
was sure she heard robbers, and begged Fritz to 
peep behind the swing-door in the long passage. 
And ‘oh,’ said this person, ‘I do so wish you 
had a gun that you could point at them to 
frighten them away.’ Fritz wasn’t such a very 
little boy just then.” 

Celia’s face got rather red, and she looked as 
if she was going to get angry, but at that 
moment, happily, Lisa appeared with the tray 
for the nursery tea. She had left the room when 
the dormouse was caught, so she had not heard 
the wonderful news, and it had all to be told 
over again. She smiled and seemed pleased, but 
not as surprised as the children expected. 

“Why, aren’t you surprised, Lisa?” said the 
children. “Did you know before? Why didn’t 
you tell us?” 


FOUR YEARS OLD. 


13 


Lisa shook her head and looked very wise. 

“What country are we going to? Can you tell 
us that?” said Celia. 

“Is it to your country? Is it to what you call 
Dutchland?” said Fritz. “I think it’s an awfully 
queer thing that countries can’t he called by the 
same names everywhere. It makes geography ever 
so much harder. We’ve got to call the people 
that live in Holland Dutch, and they call them- 
selves — oh, I don’t know what they call them- 
selves — ” 

“Hollanders,” said Lisa. 

“Hollanders!” repeated Fritz. “Well, that’s a 
sensible sort of name for people that live in 
Holland. But we've got to call them Dutch; and 
then, to make it more muddled still, Lisa calls 
her country Dutchland, and the people Dutch, and 
we call them German. I think it’s very stupid. 
If I was to make geography I wouldn’t do it that 
way.” 

“What’s jography?” said Baby. 

“Knowing all about all the countries and all 
the places in the world,” said Denny. 

“Him wants to learn that,” said Baby. 

“Oh, you’re far too little!” said Denny. “/ 


14 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERR BABY. 


only began it last year. Oh, you’re ever so much 
too little ! ” 

“Him’s not too little to go in the ’normous 
boat to see all zem countlies,” said Baby, val- 
iantly. “Him will learn jography.” 

“That’s right. Baby,” said Fritz. “Stick up 
for yourself. You’ll be a great deal bigger than 
Denny some day.” 

Denny was getting ready an answer when Lisa, 
who knew pretty well the signs of war between 
Fritz and Denny, called to all the children to 
come to tea; and as both Fritz and Denny were 
great hands at bread and butter, they forgot to 
quarrel, and began pulling their chairs in to the 
table, and in a few minutes all four were busy at 
work. 

What a pretty sight, and what a pleasant thing 
a nursery tea is! when the children, that is to 
say, are sweet-faced and smiling, with clean pina- 
fores, and clean hands, and gentle voices ; not 
leaning over the table, knocking over cups, and 
snatching rudely at the “butteriest” pieces of 
bread and butter, and making digs at the sugar 
when nurse is not looking. That kind of nursery 
tea is not to my mind, and not at all the kind to 


FOUR YEARS OLD. 


15 


which I am always delighted to receive an invita- 
tion, written in very round, very black letters, on 
very small sheets of paper. The nursery teas in 
Baby’s nursery were not always quite what I like 
to see them, for Celia, Fritz, and Denny, and 
Baby too, had their tiresome days as well as their 
pleasant ones, and though they meant to be good 
to each other, they did not always do just what 
they meant, or really wished, at the bottom of 
their hearts. But to-day all the little storms 
were forgotten in the great news, and all the 
faces looked bright and eager, though just at first 
not much was said, for when children are hungry 
of course they can’t chatter quite so fast, and all 
the four tongues were silent till at least one cup 
of tea, and perhaps three or four slices of bread 
and butter each — just as a beginning, you know 

— had disappeared. 

Then said Celia, — 

“Lisa, do tell us if you know what sort of a 
place we’re going to.” 

“Cows pulls carts there,” observed Baby; “and 

— and — what was the ’nother thing? We’ll have 
frogs es for dinner.” 

“Baby!” said the others, ^^wJiat nonsense!” 


16 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“ ’Tisn’t nonsense. Ganfather said Thomas and 
Dones wouldn’t go ’cos they was lightened of 
frogses for dinner. Him doesn’t care — frogses 
tastes werry good.” 

“How do you know? You’ve never tasted 
them,” said Fritz. 

“Ganfather said zem was werry good.” 

“Grandfather was joking,” said Celia. “I’ve 
often heard him laugh at people that way. It’s 
just nonsense — Thomas and Jones don’t know 
any better. Do they eat frogs in your country, 
Lisa?” 

“In mine country, Fraulein C^lie?” said Lisa, 
looking rather vexed. “No indeed. Man eats 
goot, most goot tings, in mine country. Say, 
Herr Baby — Herr Baby knows what goot tings 
Lisa would give him in her country.” 

“Yes,” said Baby, “such good tings. Tocolate 
and cakes — lots — and bootiful soup, all sweet, 
not like salty soup. Him would like werry much 
to go to Lisa’s countly.” 

“Do cows pull carts in your country, Lisa?” 
asked Denny. 

“Some parts. Not where mine family lives,” 
said Lisa. “No, Fraulein Denny, it’s not to mine 




I 



He sat avith One Arm propped on the Table, and his Round 
Head leaning on his Hand, while the Other held the Piece op 
Bread and Butter — Butter downwards, op course. — p. 17. 




FOUR YEARS OLD. 


17 


country we’re going. Mine country is it colt, so 
colt; and your lady mamma and your lady auntie 
they want to go where it is warm, so warm, and 
sun all winter.” 

“J should like that too,” said Celia, “I hate 
winter.” 

“That’s ’cos you’re a girl,” said Fritz; “you 
crumple yourself up by the fire and sit shivering 
— no wonder you’re cold. You should come out 
skating like Denny, and then you’d get warm.” 

“Denny’s a girl too. You said it was because 
I was a girl,” said Celia. 

“Well, she’s not as silly as some girls, any- 
way,” said Fritz, rather “put down.” 

Baby was sitting silent. He had made an end 
of two cups of tea and five pieces of bread and 
butter. 

He was not, therefore, quite so hungry as he 
had been at the beginning, but still he was a 
long way off having made what was called in the 
nursery a “good tea.” Something was on his 
mind. He sat with one arm propped on the table, 
and his round head leaning on his hand, while 
the other held the piece of bread and butter — 
butter downwards, of course — which had been on 


18 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


its way to his mouth when his brown study had 
come over him. 

“Herr Baby,” said Lisa, “eat, mine child.” 

Baby took no notice. 

“What has he then?” said Lisa, who was very 
easily frightened about her dear Herr Baby. 
“Can he be ill? He eats not.” 

“Ill,” said Celia. “No fear, Lisa. He’s had 
ever so much bread and butter. Don’t you want 
any more. Baby? What are you thinking about? 
We’re going to have honey on our last pieces 
to-night, aren’t we, Lisa? For a treat, you know, 
because of the news of going away.” 

Celia wanted the honey because she was very 
fond of it; but besides that, she thought it would 
wake Baby out of his brown study to hear about 
it, for he was very fond of it too. 

He did catch the word, for he turned his blue 
eyes gravely on Celia. 

“Honey’s werry good,” he said, “but him’s not 
at his last piece yet. Him doesn’t sink he’ll 
ever be at his last piece to-night; him’s had to 
stop eating for he’s so dedful busy in him’s 
head.” 

“Poor little man, have you got a pain in your 


FOUR YEARS OLD. 


19 


head?” said his sister, kindly. “Is that what 
you mean?” 

“No, no,” said Baby, softly shaking his head, 
“no pain. It’s only busy sinking.” 

“What about?” said all the children. 

Baby sat straight up. 

“Children,” he said, “him zeally can’t eat, sink- 
ing of what a dedful packing there’ll be. All of 
\ everysing. Him zeally sinks- it would be best to 
begin to-night.” 

At this moment the door opened. It was 
mother. She often came up to the nursery at 
tea-time, and 

“When the children had been good; 

That is, be it understood, 

Good at meal times, good at play,” 

I need hardly say, they were very, very pleased 
to see her. Indeed there were times even when 
they were glad to see her face at the door when 
they hadnH been very good, for somehow she had 
a way of putting things right again, and making 
them feel both how wrong and how silly it is to 
be cross and quarrelsome, that nobody else had. 
And she would just help the kind words out 


20 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


without seeming to do so, and take away that 
sore, horrid feeling that one cari^t be good, even 
though one is longing so to be happy and friendly 
again. 

But this evening there had been nothing worse 
than a little squabbling; the children all greeted 
mother merrily, only Baby still looked rather 
solemn. 


CHAPTER II. 


INSIDE A TEUNK. 

“For girls are as silly as spoons, dears, 

And boys are as jolly as bricks. 
***** 

Oh Mammy, you tell ns a story ! — 

They won’t hear a word that I say.” 

“Mother, mother!” they all cried with one 
voice, and the three big ones jumped up and ran 
to her, all pulling her at once. 

“Mother, mother, do sit down in the rocking- 
chair and look comfortable,” said Fritz. 

“There’s still some tea. You’ll have a cup of 
tea, won’t you, mother?” said Celia. 

“And some bread and honey,” said Denny. 

“It won’t spoil your afternoon tea; don’t say it 
will,” said all together, for nothing would ever 
make them believe that when mother came up to 
the nursery at tea-time it could be allowed that 
she should not have a share of whatever there was. 

“Such a good thing we had honey to-night,” 
said Celia, who was busy cutting a very dainty 


21 


22 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


piece of bread and butter. “We persuaded Lisa 
to give it us extra^ you know, mother, because of 
the news. And, oh, mother, what do you think 
Baby says? he — ” 

“Baby! what is the matter with him?” inter- 
rupted mother. 

They all turned to look at him. Poor Baby, he 
had set to work to get down from his chair to 
run to mother with the others, but the chair was 
high and Baby was short, and Lisa, who had 
gone to the cupboard for a fresh cup and saucer 
for “madame,” as she called the children’s 
mother, had not noticed the trouble Herr Baby 
had got himself into. One little leg and a part 
of his body were stuck fast in the open space 
between the bars at the back, his head had some- 
how got under the arm of the chair, and could 
not be got out again without help. And Baby 
was far too proud to call out for help as long 
as there was a chance of his doing without it. 
But he really was in a very uncomfortable state, 
and it was a wonder that the chair, which was a 
light wicker one, had not toppled over with the 
queer way in Avhich he was hanging. They got 
him out at last; his face was very red, and I 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


23 


think the tears had been very near coming, but 
he choked them down, and looking up gravely he 
said to his mother, — 

“Him’s chair is getting too small. Him hasn’t 
room to turn.” 

“Is it really?” said his mother, quite gravely 
too. She saw that Celia and Fritz were ready to 
burst out laughing at poor Baby, and she didn’t 
want them to do so, for Baby had really been 
very brave, and now when he was trying hard not 
to cry it would have been too bad to laugh at 
him. “Is it really?” she said. “I must see 
about it, and if it is too small we must get you 
another.” 

“Him doesn’t want you to pack up that chair,” 
said Baby again, giving himself a sort of shake, 
as if to make sure that his head, and his legs, 
and all the rest of him, were in their proper 
places after being so turned about and twisted by 
his struggles in the chair. 

“He’s quite in a fuss about packing,” said 
Celia; “that’s what I was going to tell you, 
mother. He stopped in the middle of his tea to 
think about it, and he said he thought we’d better 
begin to-night.” 


24 THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 

“Yes,” said Baby. “There’s such lots to pack. 
All our toys, and the labbits, and the mouses, and 
the horses, and the fireplaces, and the tables, and 
the cups, and the saucers,” his eyes wandering 
round the room as he went on with his list. 
“Him thinks we’ll need lots of boats to go 
in.” 

“And two or three railway trains all to our- 
selves,” said mother. 

Baby looked up at her gravely. He could not 
make out if mother was in fun or earnest. His 
little puzzled face made mother draw him to her 
and give him a kiss. 

“It’s a shame to talk nonsense to such a seri- 
ous little man,” she said. “Don’t trouble yourself 
about the packing, Baby dear. Don’t you , know 
grandfather, and auntie, and I have had lots of 
packings to do in our lives? Why, we had to 
pack up two houses when we came away from 
India, and that was much, much farther away than 
where we’re going now! And you were such a 
tiny baby then — it was very much harder, for 
mother was very, very sad, and she never thought 
you would grow to be a big strong boy like what 
you are now.” 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


25 


“Was that when — ” began thoughtless Denny, 
but Fritz gave her a tug. 

“You hnow it makes mother unhappy to talk 
about that time,” he whispered; but mother heard 
him. 

“No, Fritz,” she said; “I don’t mind Denny 
thinking about it. I am so glad to have all of 
you, dears, happy and good, that my sorrow is not 
so bad as it was. And I am so glad you and 
Celia can remember your father. Poor Baby — he 
can’t remember him,” she said, softly stroking 
Baby’s face. 

“’Cos he went to Heaven when him was so 
little,” said Baby. Then he put his arms round 
mother’s neck. “Him and Fritz will soon grow 
big, and be werry good to mother,” he said. 
“And ganfather and auntie are werr}^ good to 
mother, isn’t they?” he added. 

“Yes indeed,” said mother; “and to all of you 
too. What would we do without grandfather and 
auntie ? ” 

“Some poor little boys and -girls has no mothers 
and ganfathers, and no stockings and shoes, and 
no notMngs^^^ said Baby solemnly. 

“There’s some things I shouldn’t mind not 


26 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


having,” said Fritz; “I shouldn’t mind having no 
lessons.” 

“O Fritz,” said his sisters; “what a lazy boy 
you are ! ” 

“No, I’m just not lazy. I’m awfully fond of 
doing everything — I don’t even mind if it’s a 
hard thing, so long as it isn’t anything in 
books,” said Fritz, sturdily. “Some people’s 
made one way, and some’s made another, and I’m 
made the way of not liking books.” 

“I wonder what Baby will say to books,” said 
mother, smiling. 

“Is jography in books,” said Baby. “Him 
wants to learn jography.” 

“7 think it’s awfully stupid,” said Denny. 
“I’m sure you won’t like it once you begin. 
Did you like lessons when you were little, 
mother?” 

“Yes, I’m sure mother did,” said Fritz. “Peo- 
ple’s fathers and mothers were always far gooder 
than their children are. I’ve noticed that. If 
ever big people tell* you about when they were 
little, it’s always about how good they were. 
And they say always, ‘Dear me, how happy chil- 
dren should be nowadays; we were never allowed 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


27 


to do so and so when we were little.’ That’s the 
way old Mrs. Nesbitt always talks, isn’t it, mother? 
I wonder if it’s true. If people keep getting 
naughtier than their fathers and mothers were, 
the world will get very naughty some day. Is 
it true?” 

“ I think it’s true that children get to be more 
spoilt,” said Denny in a low voice. “Just look 
how Baby’s clambering all over mother! O Baby, 
you nearly knocked over mother’s cup! I never 
was allowed to do like that when I was a little girl.” 

Everybody burst out laughing — even mother — 
but Denny had the good quality of not minding 
being laughed at. 

“Was the tea nice, and the bread and butter 
and honey?” she said eagerly, as mother rose to 
put the empty cup in a place of safety. 

“Very nice, thank you,” said mother. “But I 
must go, dears. I have a good many things to 
talk about with grandfather and auntie.” 

“Packing?” said Baby. 

“How you do go on about packing!” said 
Denny. “Of course mother’s not going to pack 
to-night.” 

Baby’s face fell. 


28 


THE ADVENTUKES OF HERR BABY. 


“Him does so Avant to begin packing,” he said 
dolefully. “ ’Appose we forgottened somesing, and 
we was over the sea!” 

“Well, I must talk about it all, arid write 
down all we have to take,” said mother. “So I 
must go to auntie now.” 

“Oh, not yet, not yet. Just five minutes 
more!” cried the children. “And, mother,” said 
Celia, “you’ve not answered my question. Is it 
true that children used to be so much better long 
ago? Were you never naughty?” 

“Sometimes,” said mother, smiling. 

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Celia. “Often, 
mother? I do hope you were often naughty. Do 
tell us a story about something naughty you did 
when you were little. You know it would be a 
good lesson for us. It would show us how 
awfully good one may learn to be, for, you know, 
you’re awfully good now.” 

“Yes, of course you are,” said Fritz and 
Denny. 

“Mother’s dedfully good,” said Baby, poking up 
his face from her knee where he had again 
perched himself, to kiss her. “Do tell him one 
story of when you was a little girl, mother.” 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


29 


Mother’s face seemed for a minute rather 
puzzled. Then it suddenly cleared up. 

“I will tell you a very little story,” she said; 
“it really is a very little stdry, but it is as long 
as I have time for just now, and it may amuse 
you. Baby’s packing put it in my head.” 

“Is it about when you were a little girl, 
mother ? ” interrupted Denny. 

“Yes. Well, when I was a little girl, I had 
no mother.” 

The elder children nodded their heads. But 
Baby, to whom it was a new idea, shook his 
sadly. 

“Zat was a gate pity,” he said. “Poor mother 
to have no mother. Had you no shoes and stock- 
ings, and nothing nice to eat?” 

“You sill — ” began Denny, but mother stopped 
her. 

“Oh yes,” she said, “I had shoes and stockings, 
and everything I wanted, for I had a very kind 
father. You know how kind grandfather is? 
And I had a kind sister whom you know too. 
But when I was a little girl, my sister was not 
herself very big, and she had a great deal to do 
for a not very big girl, you know. There w^re 


30 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY; 


our brothers, for we had several, and though they 
were generally away at school there seemed always 
something to do for them — letters to write to 
them, if there was nothing else — and then, in 
the holidays, there were all their new shirts, and 
stockings, and things to get to take back to 
school. Helen seemed always busy. She had 
been at school too, before your grandfather came 
back from India, for five years, bringing me wuth 
him, quite a wee little girl of four. And Helen 
was so happy to be with us again, that she 
begged not to go back to school, and, as she was 
really very well on for her age, grandfather let 
her stay at home.” 

“There, you see,” whispered Celia, nudging 
Fritz. “ It’s beginning — it always does — you 
hear how awfully good auntie was.” 

Mother went on quietl3^ If she heard wh^-t 
Celia said she took no notice. “Grandfather let 
her stay at home and have lessons there. She 
had a great many lessons to learn for her age 
besides those that one learns out of books. She 
had to learn to be very active, and very thought- 
ful, and, above all, very patient. For the little 
sister she had to take care of was, I am afraid, a 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


31 


very spoilt little girl when she first came home. 
Grandfather had spoiled her without meaning it; 
he was so sorry for her because she had no 
mother, and Helen was so sorry for her too, that 
it was rather difficult for her not to spoil her as 
well.” 

Here Baby himself “inrumpted.” 

“Him doesn’t understand,” he said. “Who 
were that little girl? Him wants a story about 
mother when her was a little girl;” and the 
corners of his mouth went down, and his eyes 
grew dewy-looking, in a very sad way. 

“Poor Baby,” said mother. “I’ll try and tell it 
more plainly. I was that little girl, and auntie 
was my sister Helen. I must get on with my 
little story. I was forgetting that Baby would 
not quite understand. Well, one da}^ to my great 
delight, Helen told me that grandfather was 
going to take her and me and the two brothers, 
who were then at home, to spend Christmas with 
one of our aunts in London. This aunt had chil- 
dren too, and though I had never seen them 
Helen told me they were very nice, for she knew 
them well, as she used to go there for her holi- 
days before we came home. She told me most 


32 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERE BABY. 


about a little girl called Lilly, who was just 
about my age. I had never had a little friend 
of my own age, and I was always talking and 
thinking about how nice it would be, and I was 
quite vexed with Helen because she would not 
begin to pack up at once. I was always teasing 
her to know what trunks we should take, and if 
all my dolls might go, and I am sure poor Helen 
often wished she had not told me anything about 
it till the very day before. I got in the way of 
going up to the big attic where the trunks were 
kept, and of looking at them and wondering 
which would go, and wishing Helen would let me 
have one all for myself and my dolls and their 
things. There was one trunk which took my 
fancy more than all the others. It was an old- 
fashioned trunk, but it must have been a very 
good one, for it shut with a sort of spring, and 
inside it had several divisions, some with little 
lids of their own, and I used to think how nice 
it would be for me, I could put all my dolls in 
so beautifully, and each would have a kind of 
house for itself. I don’t remember how I man- 
aged to get it open, perhaps it had been a little 
open when I first began my visits to the attic. 



“There was one Trunk which took my Fancy more than All the 

— p. 32. 


Others.” 






INSIDE A TRUNK. 


33 


for the lid was very heavy, and I was neither big 
nor strong for my age. But it was open, and it 
stayed so, for no one else ever went up to the 
attic but I. The other people in the house were 
too busy, and no one would have thought there 
was anything amusing in looking at empty trunks 
in a row. But I went up to the attic day after 
day. I climbed up the narrow staircase as soon 
as I had had my breakfast, and stayed there till 
I heard my nurse calling me to get ready to go 
out, or to come to my lessons, for I was begin- 
ning to learn to read, and I used to have a little 
lesson every day. And at last one day I said to 
my sister, 

“‘Helen, may I have the big trunk with the 
little cupboards in it for my trunk ? ’ 

“Helen was busy at the time, and I don’t 
think she heard exactly what I said. She an- 
swered me hurriedly that she would see about it 
afterwards. But I went on teasing. 

“‘May I begin putting Marietta and Lady 
Regina into the little cupboards inside?’ I said. 

“‘Oh yes, I dare say you can if you like,’ said 
Helen. She told me afterwards that when I 
spoke of cupboards she never thought I meant a 


34 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


trunk, she thought I was speaking of some of 
the nursery cupboards. 

“It was just bed-time then, too late for m6 to 
go to the attic, for I knew there was no chance 
of my getting leave to go up there with a candle. 
But I fell asleep with my head full of how 
nicely I could put the dolls into the trunk, each 
with her clothes beside her, and the very first 
thing the next morning I got them all together 
and I mounted up to the attic. I had never told 
nurse about my going up there. Once or twice, 
perhaps, she had seen me coming down the stair, 
but very likely she had thought I had only been 
a little way up to look out of a window there 
was there. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her, 
perhaps I was afraid of her stopping my going. I 
waited till she was busy about her work, fetching 
coals and so on, and then I trotted off with Lady 
Regina under one arm and Marietta under the 
other, and a bundle of their clothes tied up in 
my pinafore before, to make my way upstairs to 
the delightful trunk. It was open as usual, and 
after putting my dolls and bundles down on the 
floor, I managed to lift out the two top trays. 
One of them was much larger than the other, and 


INSIDE A TEUNK. 


35 


it was in what I called the cupboards below the 
smaller one that I settled to put Regina and 
Marietta. There were two of these little cup- 
boards, and each had a lid. They would just do 
beautifully. Under the larger tray there was just 
one big space without a lid, ‘just a hole,’ I 
called it. I went on for a little time, laying in 
some of the clothes first to make a nice soft 
place for the dolls to lie on, but I soon got 
tired. It was so very far to reach over, for the 
outside edges of the box were high, higher of 
course than the inside divisions, for the trays I 
had taken out, which lay on the top of the lower 
spaces, were a good depth, and there had been no 
division between them. It came into my head 
that it would be much easier if I were to get 
into the box myself — I could stand in the big 
hole, as I called it, and reach over to the little 
divisions where I wanted to put the dolls, and it 
would be far less tiring than trying to reach over 
from the outside. So I clambered in — it was 
not very difficult — and when I found myself 
really inside the trunk I was so pleased that I 
sat down cross-legged, like a little Turk, to take 
a rest before going on with what I called my 


36 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


packing. But sitting still for long was not in 
my way — I soon jumped up again, meaning to 
reach over for Lady Regina, who was lying on 
the floor beside the trunk, but, how it happened I 
cannot tell, I suppose I somehow caught the tapes 
which fastened the lid; anyway down it came! 
It did not hurt me much, for I had not had time 
to stretch out my head, and the weight fell 
mostly on my shoulders, sideways as it were, and 
before I knew what had happened I found myself 
doubled up somehow in my hole, with the heavy 
lid on the top of me, all in the dark, except a 
little line of light round the edge, for the lid had 
not shut quite down; the hasp of the lock — as 
the little sticking-out piece is called — had caught 
in the fall, and was wedged into a wrong place. 
So, luckily for me, there was still a space for 
some air to come in, and a little light, though 
very little. I was dreadfully frightened at first; 
then I began to get over my fright a little, and 
to struggle to get out. Of course my first idea 
was to try to push up the lid with my head and 
shoulders; I remember the feeling of it pushing 
back upon me — the dreadful feeling that I 
couldn’t move it, that I was shut up there and 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


37 


couldn’t get out! I was too little to understand 
all at once that there could be any danger, that I 
might perhaps be suffocated — that means choked, 
Baby — for want of air; or that I might really be 
hurt by being so cramped and doubled up. And 
really there was not much danger; if I had been 
older I should have been more frightened than 
there was really any reason to be. But I was big 
enough to begin very quickly to get very angry 
and impatient. I had never in all my life been 
forced to do anything I disliked; often and often 
my nurse, and sometimes Helen, had begged me 
to try to sit still for a minute or two, but I 
never would. And now the lesson of having to 
give in to something much worse than sitting 
still in my nice little chair by the nursery fire, or 
standing still for two minutes while a new frock 
was tried on, had to be learnt! There was no 
getting rid of it; I kicked and I pushed, it was 
no use; the strong heavy lid which had been to 
India and back two or three times would not 
move the least bit. I tried to poke out my 
fingers through the little space that was left, but 
I could not find the lock, and it was a good thing 
I did not, for if I had touched the hasp, most 


38 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


likely the lid would have fallen quite into its 
place, crushing my poor little fingers, and shutting 
me in without any air at all. At last I thought 
of another plan. I set to work screaming. 

“‘Nurse, nurse, Nelly, oh Nelly,’ I cried, and 
at last I shouted, ‘Papa, Papa^ Papa,’ at the top 
of my voice. But it was no use! Most children 
would have begun screaming at the very first. 
But I was not a frightened child, and I was very 
proud. I did not want any one to find me 
shut up in a box like that, besides, they would 
be sure to stop my ever coming up to the attic 
again. So it was not till I had tired myself out 
with trying to push up the lid that I set to 
work to screaming, and that made it all the more 
provoking that my calls brought no one. At last 
I got so out of patience that I set to work again 
kicking for no use at all, but just because I was 
so angry. I kicked and screamed, and at last I 
burst into tears and roared. Then I caught 
sight, through the chink, of Lady Regina’s blue 
dress, where the doll was lying on the floor near 
the trunk. 

“‘Nasty Regina,’ I shouted, ‘nasty, ugly Regina. 
You are lying there as if there was nothing the 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


39 


matter, and it was all for you I came up here. I 
hate dolls — they never do nothing. If you were 
a little dog you’d go and bark, and then some- 
body would come and let me out.’ 

“Then I went on crying and sobbing till I was 
perfectly tired, and then what do you think I 
did? Though I was so uncomfortable, all crushed 
up into a little ball, I went to sleep! I went to 
sleep as soundly as if I had been in my own 
little bed, and afterwards I found, from what they 
told me, that I must have slept quite two hours. 
When* I woke up I could not think where I was. 
I felt so stiff and sore, and when I tried to 
stretch myself out I could not, and then I remem- 
bered where I was! It seemed quite dark; I 
wondered if it was night, till I noticed the little 
chink of light at the edge of the lid, and then I 
began to cry again, but not so wildly as before. 
All of a sudden I thought I heard a sound — 
some one was coming upstairs! and then I heard 
voices. 

“‘Fallen out of the window,’ one said. ‘Oh 
no, nurse, she couldn't! She could never get 
through. ’ 

“But yet the person seemed to be looking out 


40 


THE ADVENTURES OF HEER BABY. 


of the window all the same, for I heard them 
opening and shutting it. And then I called 
out again. 

‘“Oh Nelly, Nelly. I’se here; I’se shut up in 
the big box with the cupboards.’ 

“They didn’t hear me at first. My little voice 
must have sounded very faint and squeaky from 
out of the trunk, besides they were not half-way 
up the attic-stairs. So I went on crying — 

“‘Oh Nelly, Nelly! I’se up here. Oh Nelly, 
Nelly! ’ 

“She heard me this time. Dear Nelly! I never 
have called to her in vain, children, in all my 
life. And in half a minute she had dashed up 
the stairs, and, guided by my voice, was kneeling 
down beside the trunk. 

“‘Little May, my poor little May,’ Nelly called 
out; and do you know I really think she was 
crying too! I was — by the time Nelly and the 
servants who were with her had got the lid 
unhooked and raised, and had lifted me out — I 
was in floods of tears. I clung to Nelly, and 
told her how ‘dedful ’ it had been, and she petted 
me so that I am afraid I quite forgot it was all 
my own fault. 


INSIDE A TRUNK. 


41 


“‘You might have been there for hours and 
hours, May,’ Nelly said to me, ‘if it hadn’t been 
for nurse thinking of the window on the stair. 
You must never go off by yourself to do things 
like that,’ and when I told her that I had asked 
her and she had given me leave, she said she had 
not at all known what I meant, and that I must 
try to remember not to tease about things once I 
had been told to wait. Anyway I think I had 
got a good lesson of patience that day, and one 
that I never forgot, for it really is not at all a 
pleasant thing to be shut up in a big trunk.” 

Mother stopped. 

Baby, who had been listening with solemn eyes, 
said slowly, 

“Him will not pack by hisself. Him will wait 
till somebody can help him. It would be so ded- 
ful sad if him was to get shuttened up like poor 
little mother, and perhaps you’d all go away ac’oss 
the sea and nebber find him.” 

The corners of his mouth went down at this 
sorrowful picture, and his eyes looked as if they 
were beginning to think about crying. But 
mother and Celia set to work petting and kissing 
him before the tears had time to come. 


42 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“As if we would ever go across the sea with- 
out Am,” said mother. 

“Why, we should never know how to do any- 
thing without Herr Baby,” said Celia. 

“ Fritz and Baby will do all the fussy things in 
travelling — taking the tickets, and counting the 
luggage, and all that — they’re such big men, 
aren’t they?” said Denny, with mischief in her 
twinkling green eyes. 

“Now you, just mind what you’re about,” said 
Fritz, gallantly. “ You’ll make him cry just when 
mother’s been comforting him up. Such stupids 
girls are!” he added in a lower voice. 

“I really must go now,” said mother, getting 
up from her chair. “Auntie will not know what 
has become of me. I have been up here, why a 
whole half hour, instead of five minutes ! ” 

“Auntie will think mother’s got shut up in a 
trunk again,” said Denny, whose tongue never 
could be still for long, and at this piece of wit 
they all burst out laughing. 

All but Herr Baby. He couldn’t see that it 
was any laughing matter. Mother’s story had 
sunk deep into his mind. Trunks were things 
to be careful of. Baby saw this clearly. 


CHAPTER III. 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

“ Sweet, eager promises bind him to this, 

Never to do so again.” 

He woke early next morning. He had so much 
to think of, you see. So much that even his 
dreams were full of all he had heard yes- 
terday. 

“Him’s been d’eaming him was in the big, big, 
’normous boat, and zen him d’ earned of being 
shuttened up in a funk like poor little mother,” 
he confided to Denny. 

He was forced to tell Denny a good many 
things, because they slept in the same room, and, 
of course, everybody knows that whatever mammas 
and nurses say, going-to-sleep-in-bed time is the 
time for talking. Waking-up-in-the-morning time 
is rather tempting, too, particularly in summer, 
when the sun comes in at the windows so brightly 
and the birds are so lively, chattering away to 
each other, and all the world is up and about. 


43 


44 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


except “ws,” who have to stay in bed till seven 
o’clock! Ah, it is a trial! On the whole, I don’t 
think chattering in the mornings is so much to be 
found fault with as chattering at night. It is 
only children who are so silly as to keep them- 
selves awake when the time for going to sleep 
has come. The birds and the bees, and the little 
lambs even, all know when that time has come, 
and go to sleep without any worry to themselves 
or other people. But children are not always so 
sensible. I could tell you a story — only I am 
afraid if she were to read it in this little book it 
would make her feel so ashamed that I should 
really be sorry for her, so I will not tell you her 
name nor where she lives — of a little girl who 
was promised two pounds, two whole gold pounds 
— fancy! if for one month she would go quietly 
to sleep at night when she was put to bed, and 
let her sister do the same; and she was to lose 
two shillings every night she forgot or disobeyed. 
Well, what do you think? at the end of two 
weeks the two pounds had come doAvn already to 
nineteen shillings! She had forgotten already ten 
times, or ten and a half times — I don’t quite 
understand how it had come to nineteen, but so 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 


45 


it had; and at the end of the month — no I don’t 
think I will tell you what it had come down to. 
Only this will show you how much more difficult 
it is to get out of a bad habit than to get into a 
good one, for this little girl is very sweet and good 
in many ways, and I love her dearly — only she had 
got into this bad habit, and it was stronger, as 
bad habits so often are, than her real true wish 
to do what her mother told her. 

But I have wandered away from Herr Baby, 
and I am afraid you won’t be pleased. He was 
forced, I was saying, to tell Denny a good many 
things, because he was most with her. I don’t 
think he would have told her as much but for 
that, for Denny’s head was a very flighty one, 
and she never cared to think or talk about the 
same thing for long together, which was not at 
all Herr Baby’s way. He liked to think a good 
deal about everything, and one thing lasted him 
a good while. 

“Him’s been d’eaming such a lot,” he said to 
Denny this morning. 

“I think dreams are very stupid,” said Denny. 
“What’s the good of them? If they made things 
come real they would be some good. Like, you 


46 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


know, if I was to dream somebody gave me some- 
thing awfully nice, and then when I woke up I 
was to see the thing on my bed, then dreams 
would be some good.” 

“But if zou d’eamed somesing dedful, like being 
shuttened up in a t’unk like poor little mother, 
zen it wouldn’t be nice for it to come zeal,” said 
Baby, who never forgot to look at things from 
both sides. 

“No, of course it wouldn’t. How stupid you 
are ! ” said Denny. “ And how your head does 
run on one thing. I’m quite tired of you talking 
about mother being shut up in the trunk. Do 
talk of something else.” 

“Him can’t talk of somesing else when him’s 
sinking of one sing,” said Baby gravely. 

“Well, then don’t talk at all,” said Denny 
sharply, “and indeed I think we’d better be quiet, 
or Lisa will be coming in, and scolding us. It’s 
only half-past six.” 

Baby did not speak for a minute or two. Then 
he said solemnly, 

“When us goes away ac’oss the sea in the 
’normous boat, him hopes him won’t sleep in the 
same zoom as you any more.” 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 


47 


“I’m sure I hope not,” said Denny snappishly. 
There was some excuse for her this morning, she 
was really rather sleepy, and it is very tiresome 
to be wakened up at half-past six, when one is 
quite inclined to sleep till half-past seven. 

But Baby could not go to sleep again. His 
mind was still running on packing. If he could 
but have a little box of his own to pack his own 
treasures in, then he would be sure none would 
be forgotten. He did not want a hig trunk — not 
one in which he could be shuttened up like 
mother, but just a nice little one. If mother 
would give him one! Stay — where had he seen 
one, just what he wanted, was it in the nursery 
or in the cupboard where Fritz kept his garden- 
tools and his skates, and all the big boy things 
which Baby too hoped to have of his own some 
day? No, it was not there. It must have been 
— yes, it was in the pantry when he went to ask 
James for a glass of water. Up on a shelf, high 
up it stood, “a tiny sweet little t’unk,” said Herr 
Baby to himself, “wouldn’t mother let him have 
it?” He would ask her this morning as soon as 
he saw her. Then he lay still and thought over 
to himself all the things he would pack in the 


48 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


tiny sweet little funk; his best Bible with his 
name 

“ Raymond Arthur Aylmer,” 

in the gold letters on the back, should have the 
nicest corner, of course, and his ^'‘scented purse,” 
as he called the Russia leather purse which grand- 
father had given him on his last birthday, that 
would go nicely beside the Bible, and his watch 
that really ticked as long as you turned the key 
in it — all those things would fit in, nicely packed 
in “totton wool,” of course, and crushy paper. 
The thought of it all made Baby’s fingers fidget 
with eagerness to begin his packing. If only 
mother would give him the box ! It must be 
mother’s, for if it was James’s he would keep 
it in his own room instead of up on the pantry 
shelf among all the glasses and cups. If Baby 
could just see it again he would know ’ezackly 
if it would do! 

Baby looked about him. Everything was per- 
fectly still, he heard no one moving about the 
house — Denny had said it was only half-past six. 

“Denny,” said Baby softly. 

No reply. 

a very little louder. 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 


49 


Still no reply; but Baby, by leaning over the 
edge of his cot a little, could see that Denny’s 
eyes were shut, and her nose was half buried in 
the pillow in the way she always turned it when 
she went to sleep. Denny had gone to sleep again. 

“Zes,” said Herr Baby to himself; “her’s a’leep 
— her’s beazing so soft.” 

He looked about him again; he stuck one little 
warm white foot out of bed — it did feel rather 
cold; he felt more than half inclined just to 
cuddle himself up warm again and lie still till 
Lisa came to dress him. But the thought of the 
little funk was too much for him. 

“Him would so like just to see it,” he said to 
himself. 

Then he stood right up in bed and clambered 
over the edge of the cot the way he had to do to 
get out of it by himself. He did not make much 
noise — not enough to waken Denny, and indeed 
he would not much have minded if she had 
awakened, only that perhaps she would have 
wanted to go too, and Baby wished just to go 
down to the pantry this quiet time of the morn- 
ing before any one was there and take a good 
look by himself. 


50 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


It was cold on the stair — just at the edge, that 
is to say, where the carpet did not cover, and 
where he had stepped without thinking, not being 
used to trotting about on bare feet, you see. 
But in the middle, on the carpet, it was nice and 
soft and warm. 

“It would be dedful to be poor boys wif no 
shoes and stockings,” he said to himself, “ ’cept 
on the carpet. Him would like to buy lots of 
lubly soft carpets for zem poor boys.” 

And he pitied the poor boys still more when 
he got to the back passage leading to the pantry, 
where there was no carpet at all, only oilcloth. 
He pattered along as fast as he could; there was 
no sound to be heard but the ticking of the 
clock, and Baby wondered that he had never 
noticed before what a loud ticking clock it was; 
it did not come into his head that it was very 
late for none of the servants to be down, for 
such matters were not his concern, and if he had 
known the truth that Denny had made a mistake 
of an hour, and that it was only half-past five 
instead of half-past six, he would not have 
thought much about it. 

He got to the pantry at last. It was darker in 


UP m THE MORNING EARLY. 


51 


here than in the passage outside, which was a 
disappointment. The shutters were shut, that was 
the reason, and when Baby looked up at them and 
saw how strong and barred they were, even he 
felt that it would be no use to try to open them. 
He climbed up on to the dresser that ran round 
one side of the wall to see better. Yes, there it 
was— 8 the tiny, sweet, little funk — just as he 
had been fancying it. Not so very high up 
either. If he could but give it a little poke out 
he could almost reach it down — it could not be 
heavy, it was mch a tiny t’unk; and, oh, if he 
could carry it out to the passage, where it was 
light, how beautifully he could look at it! He 
stood up on tiptoe, and found he could almost 
reach it. A brush with a sticking-out handle was 
lying beside him. Baby took it, and found that 
by poking it in a little behind the box he could 
make it move out, and if it were moved out a 
very little way he could reach to lift it down. 
He moved it out enough, then he stretched up his 
two hands to lift it down — it was not very 
heavy, but still rather heavier than he had 
thought. But with the help of his curly head, 
which he partly rested it on, he got it out safely 


52 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


enough, and was just slipping it gently down- 
wards to the dresser when somehow the brush 
handle, which he had left on the shelf, caught 
him or the box, he could not tell which, and, 
startled by the feeling of something pushing 
against him. Baby lost his balance and fell! Off 
the dresser right down on to the hard floor, which 
had no carpet even to make it softer, he tumbled, 
and the little funk on the top of him. What a 
noise it made — even in the middle of his fright 
Baby could not help thinking what a tremendous 
noise he and the box seemed to make. He lay 
still for a minute; luckily the box, though it had 
come straight after him, had fallen a little to 
one side, and had not hit him. He was bruised 
enough by the floor already — any more bumps 
would have been too much, would they not? But 
the poor box itself was to be pitied; it had come 
open in the fall, and all that was in it had natu- 
rally tumbled out. That explained the noise and 
clatter. The box had held — indeed it had been 
made on purpose to hold them — two beautiful 
glass jugs, which had been sent to mother all the 
way from Italy I Baby had never seen them, 
because they were only used when mother and 




For a Minute or Two Baby could not make out what had 

HAPPENED. — p. 53, 




UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 


53 


auntie wanted the dinner-table to look very nice, 
and of course Baby was too little ever to come 
down to dinner. And, alas, the beautiful jugs, so 
fine and thin that one could almost have thought 
the fairies had made them, were both broken, one 
of them, indeed, crushed and shivered into mere 
bits of glass lying about the pantry floor, and the 
box itself had lost its lid, for the hinges had been 
broken, too, in the fall. 

For a minute or two Baby could not make out 
what had happened. He felt a little stupid with 
the fall, and sore too. But he never was ready 
to cry for bumps or knocks; he would cry much 
more quickly if any one spoke sharply to him 
than if he hurt himself. So at first he lay still, 
wondering what was the matter. Then he sat 
up and looked about him, and then^ seeing the 
broken box and the broken glass, he understood 
that he had done some harm, and he burst into 
piteous sobbing. 

“Him didn’t mean,” he cried; “him didn’t 
know there was nuffin in the tiny funk. Oh, 
what shall him do?” 

He cried and sobbed, and, being now very 
frightened, he cried the more when he saw that 


54 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


there was blood on his little white nightgown, 
and that the blood came from one of his little 
cold feet, which had been cut by a piece of the 
broken glass. Baby was much more frightened 
by the sight of blood than by anything else — 
when he climbed up on the nursery chest of 
drawers, and Denny told him he’d be killed if 
he fell down, he didn’t mind a bit, but when 
Lisa said that he might hurt his face if he fell, 
and make it hleed^ he came down at once — and 
now the sight of the blood was too much. 

“Oh, him’s hurt hisself, him’s all bleeding!” 
he cried. “Oh, what shall him do?” 

He dared not move, for he was afraid of lifting 
the cut foot — he really did not know what to do 
— when he heard steps coming along the passage, 
pattering steps something like his own, and before 
he had time to think who it could be, a second 
little white-nightgowned figure trotted into the 
room. 

“Baby, poor Baby, what’s the matter?” and, 
looking up, Baby saw it was Fritz. 

“Him’s hurt hisself, him’s tumbled, and the 
tiny t’unk is brokened, and somesing else is 
brokened. Him didn’t mean,” he sobbed; and 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 


55 


Fritz sat down on the floor beside him, having the 
good sense to keep out of the way of the broken 
glass, and lifted the little bleeding foot gently. 

“Must have some sticking-plaster,” said Fritz. 
“There’s some in mother’s pocket-book in her 
room.. We must go to mother. Baby.” 

“But him can’t walk,” said Baby piteously. 
“Him’s foot bleedens dedful when him moves it.” 

“Then I must carry you,” said Fritz, impor- 
tantly. 

With some difficulty he got Baby on to his 
back and set off with him. Baby had often 
ridden on Fritz’s back before, in the nursery, for 
fun, and it seemed very nice and easy. But now, 
though he had only his nightgown on, Fritz was 
surprised to And how heavy he seemed after going 
a little way. He was obliged to rest after he had 
gone up a few steps, and Baby began to cry 
worse than before when he saw how tired poor 
Fritz was. I really don’t know how they ever 
got to the door of mother’s room, and, when their 
knocking brought her out, it was rather a frighten- 
ing sight for her — Baby perched on Fritz’s back, 
both little boys looking white and miserable, and 
the wounded foot covered with blood. 


56 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


But mother knew better than to ask what was 
the matter till she had done something to put 
things to rights again. 

“Him’s foot” was the first thing Baby said, 
stretching out his poor little toes. 

And the foot looked so bad that mother felt 
quite thankful when she had bathed it and found 
that the cut was not really a very deep one after 
all. And when ' it was nicely plastered up, and 
both little boys were tucked into mother’s bed to 
get warm again, then mother had to hear all about 
it. It was not much Fritz could tell. He, too, 
had wakened early, and had heard Denny and 
Baby talking, for he slept in a little room near 
theirs. He had fallen half asleep again, and 
started up, fancying he heard a noise and a cry, 
and, getting out of bed, had found his way to the 
pantry, guided by Baby’s sobs. But what Baby 
was doing in the pantry, or why he had wandered 
off there all alone so early in the morning, Fritz 
did not know. 

So Baby had to tell his own story, which he 
did straight on in his own way. He never 
thought of not telling it straight on ; he was 
afraid mother would be sorry when she heard 


UP usr THE MORNING EARLY. 


57 


about the “somesing” that was broken, but it 
had never entered his little head that one could 
help telling mother “ezackly” all about anything. 
And so he told the whole — how he had been 
‘‘sinking” about trunks and packing, and “d’eam- 
ing” about them too, how Denny had been “razer 
c’oss ” and wouldn’t talk, and how the thought of 
the tiny sweet funk had come into his head all 
of itself, and he had fancied how nice it would 
be to go downstairs and look at it on the pantry 
shelf, and then how all the misfortunes had come. 
At the end he burst into tears again when he had 
to tell of the “somesing brokened,” now lying 
about in shiny fragments on the pantry floor. 

Poor mother! She knew in a minute what it 
was that was broken, and I cannot say but that 
she was very sorry, more sorry perhaps than Baby 
could understand, for she had had the pretty jugs 
many years, and the thoughts of happy days were 
mingled with the shining of the rainbow glass. 
Baby saw the sorry look on her face, and stretched 
up his two arms to clasp her neck. 

“Him is so sorry, so werry sorry,” he said. 
“Him will take all the money of him’s money- 
box to buy more shiny jugs for mother.” 


58 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


Mother kissed him, but told him that could 
not be. 

“The jugs came from a far-away country, Baby 
dear,” she said, “and you could not get them 
here. Besides, I cared for them in a way you 
can’t understand. I had had them a long time, 
and one gets to care for things, even if they are 
not very pretty in themselves, when one has had 
them so long.” 

“Oh ses, him does understand,” said Baby. 
“Him cares for old sings, far best.” 

“Yes,” said Fritz, “he really does, mother. He 
cries when Lisa says she must put away his old 
shoes, and his old woolly lamb is dreadful — really 
dreadful, but he won't give it away.” 

“It has such a sweet face,” said Baby. 

“Well I don’t care; I wish it was burnt up. 
He mustn’t take it in the railway with us when 
we go away; must he, mother?” 

“Couldn’t it be washed?” said mother. 

“I don’t think so, and I don’t believe Baby 
would like it as much if it was. Would you. 
Baby?” said Fritz. 

Baby would not answer directly. He seemed 
rather in a hurry to change the subject. 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 


59 


“Mother,” he said, “when we go away in the 
’normous boat, won’t we p’raps go to the country 
where the shiny jugs is made? And if him takes 
all the money in him’s money-box, couldn’t him 
buy some for you?” 

“They wouldn’t be the same ones,” said Fritz. 

Baby’s face fell. Mother tried to comfort him. 

“Never mind about the jugs any more just 
now,” she said. “Some day, perhaps, when you 
are a big man you will get me some others quite 
as pretty, that I shall like for your sake. What 
will please me more than new jugs just now. 
Baby, is for you to promise me not to try to do 
things like that without telling any one. Just 
think how very badly hurt you might have been. If 
only you had waited to ask me about the little 
box all would have been right, and my pretty 
jugs would not have been broken.” 

“And mother told us that last night, you know, 
dear,” said Fritz, in his proper big brother tone. 
“Don’t you remember in the story about her when 
she was little? It all came of her not waiting 
for her big sister to see about the trunk.” 

Baby gave a deep sigh. 

“If God hadn’t put so much sinking into him’s 


60 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


head, it would have been much better,” he said. 
“Him sinks and sinks, and zen him can’t help 
wanting to do sings zat moment minute.” 

“Then ‘him’ must learn patience means,” 

said mother with a little smile. “But I’ll tell 
you what Tve been thinking — that if we don’t 
take care somebody else may be hurting them- 
selves with the broken glass on the pantry floor.” 

“P’raps the cat,” said Baby, starting up, “oh 
poor pussy, if her was to cut her dear little foots. 
Shall him go downstairs again, mother, to shut 
the door? Why, him’s foot’s still zatTier bleedy,” 
he added, drawing out the wounded foot, which had 
a handkerchief wrapped round it above the plaster. 

“No,” said his mother, “it will be better for 
me to tell the servants myself,” so she rang the 
bell, and as it was now about the time that 
Denny had thought it when Baby first woke up, 
in a few minutes her maid appeared, looking 
rather astonished. She looked still more aston- 
ished, and a little afraid too, when she caught 
sight of the two curly heads, one dark and one 
light, on mother’s pillow. 

“Is there anything wrong with the young gen- 
tlemen?” she said. “Shall I call Lisa, my lady?” 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 


61 


“No, not quite yet,” said mother. “I rang to 
tell you to warn James and the others that there 
is some broken glass on the pantry floor, and they 
must be careful not to tread on it, and it must 
be swept up.” 

“Broken glass, ma’am,” repeated the maid, who 
was rather what Denny called “ ’quisitive.” “Was 
it the cat? I did think I heard a noise early 
this morning.” 

“No, it wasn’t the cat,” said mother. “It was 
an accident. James will see what is broken.” 

The light curly head had disappeared by this 
time under the clothes, for Baby had ducked out 
of sight, feeling ashamed of its being known that 
he had been the cat. But as soon as the maid 
had left the room he came up again to the surface 
like a little fish, and a warm feeling of thanks 
to his mother went through his heart. 

“You won’t tell the servants it were him, will 
you ? ” he whispered, stretching up for another 
kiss. 

“No, not if ‘him’ promises never to try to do 
things like reaching down boxes for himself. 
Herr Baby must ask mother about things like 
that, mustn’t he?” she said. 


62 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


Mother often called him “Herr Baby” for fun. 
The name had taken her fancy when he was a 
very tiny child, and Lisa had first come to be his 
nurse. For Lisa was very polite; she would not 
have thought it at all proper to call him “Baby” 
all by itself. 

Herr Baby kissed mother a third time, which, 
as he was not a very kissing person, was a great 
deal in one morning. 

“Ses,” he said, “him will always aks mother. 
Mother is so sweet,” he added coaxingly. 

“He calls everything he likes ‘sweet,’” said 
Fritz. “Mother and the cat and the tiny trunk 
— they’re all ‘sweet.’” 

But mother smiled, so Baby didn’t mind. 


CHAPTER IV. 


GOING AWAY. 

“ She did not say to the sun good-night, 

As she watched him there like a hall of light, 

For she knew he had God’s time to keep 
All over the world, and never could sleep.” 

How, I can’t tell, but, after all, somehow the 
packing got done, and everything was ready. 
They left a few things behind that Herr Baby 
would certainly have taken had he had the 
settling of it. They didn’t take the horses, nor 
the fireplaces, and, of course, as the horses weren’t 
to go, Thomas and Jones had to be left behind 
too to take care of them, which troubled Baby a 
good deal. And no doubt Thomas and Jones 
would have been very unhappy if it hadn’t been 
for the nice way Baby spoke to them about 
coming back soon, and the letters he would send 
them on their birthdays, and that he would never 
like any other Thomases and Joneses as much as 
them. It was really quite nice to hear him, and 
•63 


64 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


Jones had to turn his head away a little — Baby 
was afraid it was to hide that he was crying. 

It was a very busy time, and Baby was the 
busiest of any. There was so much to think of. 
The rabbits too had to be left behind, which was 
very sad, for one couldn’t write letters to them 
on their birthdays; neither Denny, whom he asked 
about it, nor Baby himself, could tell when the 
rabbits’ birthdays were, and besides, as Baby said, 
“what would be the good of writing them letters 
if they couldn’t read them?” The only thing to 
do was to get the little girl at the lodge to 
promise to take them fresh cabbages every morn- 
ing — that was one of the things Herr Baby had 
to see about, himself. Lisa lost him one morning, 
and found him at the lodge, after a great hunt, 
talking very gravely to the little girl about it. 

“ Zou will p’omise, Betsy, p’omise certain sure, 
nehher to forget,” he was saying, and poor Betsy 
looked quite frightened, Herr Baby was so very 
solemn. Fritz wanted to make her kiss her 
mother’s old Testament, the way he had seen men 
do sometimes in his grandfather’s study when they 
came to tell about things, and to promise they 
would speak the truth; but Betsy, though she was 



“ Zou WILL p’oMiSE, Betsy, p’omise certain sure, nebber to 

— p. 64. 


FORGET 





GOING AWAY. 


65 


ready enough to promise, didn’t like the other 
idea at all. She might be had up to the court 
for such like doings, she said, and as neither 
Fritz nor Baby had any idea what sort of place 
the court was, though they fancied it was some 
kind of prison for people who didn’t keep their 
word, they thought it better to leave it. 

The “ calanies ” and the “ Bully ” were to go, 
that was a comfort, and Peepy-Snoozle and Tim, 
the two dormice, also, another comfort. Baby’s 
own packing was a serious matter, but, on the 
whole, I think mother and Lisa and everybody 
were rather glad he had it to do, as it gave other 
people a chance of getting theirs done without the 
little feet pattering along the passage or up the 
stairs, and the little shrill voice asking what was 
going to be put into this trunk or into that 
carpet-bag. He gave up thinking so much about 
the other packing after a while, for he found his 
own took all his time and attention. Mother had 
found him a box after all. Not the box of course 
— that was left empty, by Baby’s wish, till some 
day when he was a big man, he should go to the 
country of the fairy glass and buy mother some 
new jugs — but a very nice little box, and she 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


gave him cotton wool and crushy paper too, and 
everything was as neat as possible, and the box 
quite packed and ready, the first evening. But it 
was very queer that ever^ day after that Herr 
Baby found something or other he had forgotten, 
or something that Denny and he decided in their 
early morning talks, that it would be silly to 
take. Or else it came into his head in the night 
that his best Bible would be better in the other 
corner, and the scenty purse on the top of it 
instead of at one side. Anyway it always hap- 
pened that the box had to be unpacked and 
packed again, and the very last evening there was 
Herr Baby on his knees before it on the floor, 
giving the finishing touches, long after he should 
have been in bed. 

“ And we have to be up so early to-morrow 
morning,” said mother, “my dear little boy, you 
really should have been fast asleep by this time.” 

“And he wakes me so early in the morning,” 
said Denny, who was standing before the fire 
giving herself little cross shakes every time poor 
Lisa, who was combing out her long fair hair, 
came to a tuggy bit. “X^sa, you’re hurting me; 
Lisa^ do take care,” she added snappishly. 


GOING AWAY. 


67 


“ My dear Denny, how very impatient you are ! ” 
said her mother. “I don’t know how you will 
bear all the little discomforts of a long journey 
if you can’t bear to have your hair combed.” 

On this, Denny, as Fritz would have said, “shut 
up.” She could not bear it to be thought that 
she was babyish or “silly.” Her great, great 
wish was to be considered quite a big girl. You 
could get her to do anything by telling her it 
would be babyish not to do it, or that doing it 
would be like big people, which, of course, showed 
that she was rather babyish in reality, as sensible 
children understand that they cannot be like big 
people in everything, and that they wouldn’t be 
at all nice if they were. 

Baby always felt sorry for Denny or any of 
them when mother found fault with them. He 
jumped up from the floor — at least he got up, his 
legs were too short for him to spring either up 
or down very actively — and trotted across to his 
sister. 

“Poor Denny,” he said, reaching up to kiss 
her, “him won’t wake her up so early to-mollow 
morning.” 

“But we’ll have to wake early to-morrow,” said 


68 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


Denny, rather crossly still, “it’s no use you 
beginning good ways about not waking me now, 
just when everything’s changed.” 

Baby looked rather sad. 

“Is your box quite ready now, dear?” said his 
mother. “Well then, let Lisa get you ready for 
bed as quick as she can, and you and Denny 
must go to sleep without any talking, and wake 
fresh in the morning.” 

But Baby still looked sad; his face began 
working and twisting, and at last he ran to 
mother and hid it in her lap, bursting into tears. 

“Denny makes him so unhappy,” he said. 
“Him doesn’t like everysing to be changed like 
Denny says. Him is so sorry to go away and to 
leave him’s house and Thomas and Jones, and oh! 
him is so sorry to leave the labbits ! ” 

“And him’s a tired little boy. I think it’s 
because he’s so tired that he’s so sad about going 
away,” said mother. “Think, dear, how nice it 
is that we’re all going together^ not Celia or Fritz 
or anybody left behind. For you know Thomas 
has his old mother he wouldn’t like to leave, and 
Jones has his wife and children. And if the 
rabbits could talk, I’m quite sure they would tell 


GOING AWAY. 


69 


you that they’d far rather stay here in their own 
nice little house, with plenty of cabbages, than be 
bundled into a box and taken away in the railway 
ever so far, without being able to run about for 
ever so many days.” 

Baby’s face cleared a little. 

“Betsy has p’omised,” he said to himself. 
Then he added, '’’‘Him won’t like the railway 
neither if it’s like that.” 

“But Am’s not going to be put in a box or a 
basket,” said mother, laughing. “Him will have 
a nice little corner all to himself in a cushioned 
railway carriage, only just now he really must go 
to bed.” 

So she kissed him for good-night, and Denny 
too, who, by this time, had recovered her good- 
humour in the interest of listening to the con- 
versation between her mother and Herr Baby, and 
soon both little sister and brother were fast asleep 
in their cots, dreaming about the journey before 
them I dare say, or perhaps forgetting all about it 
in the much queerer and stranger journeys that 
small people are apt to fly away upon at night, 
when their tired little bodies seem to be lying 
quite still and motionless in bed. 


70 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


It was strange enough — almost as strange as a 
dream — the next morning when, long before it 
was light, they had all to get up and be dressed 
at once in their going-out things — that is to say 
their thick boots and gaiters, and woollen under- 
jackets (for it was very cold, though not yet far 
on in November), while their ulsters and com- 
forters and caps, and the girls’ sealskin coats and 
muffs and hats, were all laid out' in four little 
heaps by Lisa, so that they should be ready to 
put on the moment breakfast was over. 

What a funny breakfast! Candles on the table, 
for it was not, of course, worth while to light the 
lamp, and everything looking more like a sort of 
“muddley tea,” Fritz said, than their usual trim 
nursery breakfast. 

“I can’t eat,” said Fritz, throwing down his 
bread and butter; “it’s no use.” 

“And there’s eggs!” said Denny, who was com- 
fortably at work at hers, looking across at Fritz 
as if it wouldn’t be very difficult to eat up his 
egg too. “I think it’s very kind of cook to have 
got up so early and made us eggs ’cos we were 
going away, and — ” 

“’Twasn’t cook, ’twas Abigail,” said Fritz. “I 


GOING AWAY. 


71 


saw her coming up with the eggs all in a pan 
with hot water, so that they shouldn’t get cold, 
she said to Lisa.” 

“Well then it was very kind of Abigail, and — ” 
said Denny. 

“’Twasn’t Abigail that made the eggs,” said 
Baby, “ ’twas the hens zat laid them. Denny 
should say the hens was werry kind.” 

“Oh bother,” said Denny, “I wish you’d not 
interrupt me. I don’t care who it was. I only 
want to say it’s very stupid of Fritz not to eat 
his egg, when somebody made them for us, extra 
you know, because we’re going away, and I think 
Fritz is very stupid.” 

“Come, Herr Fritz,” said Lisa, encouragingly, 
“try and eat. You will be so hungry.” 

“I can’t,” said Fritz, “I’ve got a horrid feeling 
just like when mother took me to have that big 
tooth out. I feel all shaky and cruddley.” 

“Yes, / know,” said Denny, going on with her 
breakfast all the same, “but eating’s the best 
thing to make it go away. I felt just that way 
the day I broke grandfather’s hotness measure, 
and mother said I must tell him myself. I 
couldn’t eat a bit of dinner, and I sat on the 


72 


THE ADVENT tJRES OF HERR BABY. 


stair all serewged up, waiting for him to go to the 
study.” 

“How dedful!” said Baby, with great feeling. 
But neither Fritz nor Celia seemed to think 
much of Denny’s sufferings. No one had ever 
seen her nerves disturbed, and they did not there- 
fore much believe in her having any. 

“Grandfather’s what did you say?” asked Celia. 

“His hotness measure — the little glass pipe 
thing with a blob that goes up. and down. He’s 
got another now, you know.” 

“You mean his thermometer; you really should 
learn the proper names of things,” said Celia, 
“you’re quite big enough.” 

Denny would probably not have taken this in 
good part, though the “ quite big enough ” at the 
end was very much to her taste, but there was no 
time this morning for squabbling. 

“Quick, quick, mine children,” said Lisa, “the 
cart with the luggage is ’way, and the Herr 
Grandpapa is buttoning his coat.” 

“And Fritz hasn’t eaten his egg!” said Denny, 
eyeing it dolefully, as Lisa was fastening her jacket. 

“I couldnH^^^ said Fritz. “There’ll be sand- 
wiches or something in the train — sure to be. 


GOING AWAY. 


73 


Now come on; let’s see what have I got to look 
after. Only Tim and Peepy-Snoozle. I couldn't 
lose my satchel, you see, for it’s strapped on me. 
Much more sensible than girls^ who have to carry 
their bags over their arms.” 

And Fritz, in a new ulster, very long and 
rather stiff, and feeling, to tell the truth, a little 
uncomfortable at first, as new things generally do, 
stalked off — I don’t think he could have run! — 
with the air of a very big man indeed. 

Celia and Denny had a slight dispute as to 
which was which of the bird’s cages. For it had 
been settled that, for the journey at least, the 
canaries were to be Celia’s charge and the 
“Bully” Denny’s, though, hitherto, these three lit- 
tle birds had belonged to all the children together. 

“You’ve got my cage, Denny,” said Celia, 
sharply. 

“I haven’t,” said Denny, holding hers the more 
tightly. It was not very easy to see, for' both 
were covered up with dark blue stuff wrappers, 
to keep the birds warm, “and to make them 
think it’s night all the way,” said Baby. 

“I haven’t,” repeated Denny, “there, don’t you 
see two yellow tails in yours? Peep through.” 


74 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


And Denny proved to be right, so Celia had to 
give in. 

And at last they were off! The drive to the 
station safely over without any mishdventures, the 
luggage all locked up in the van, the children 
and the dormice and the birds. — far more impor- 
tant things, of course, than the big people I — all 
comfortably settled at one end of the nice big 
saloon carriage, which grandfather had had sent 
down on purpose from London. 

“Dear me,” said Denny, jigging up and down 
on her seat, “so we’re really off! How nice and 
springy these cushions are! And this carriage is 
as big as a little house. I could never be tired 
of travelling in a carriage like this.” 

“Him zought we’d nehher gQt away,” said Baby, 
with his usual solemnity. “Dear, dear, what ded- 
ful lots of boxes there is ! Him’s box is ’aside the 
’normous big straw one; did zou know, Denny?” 

“Poor grandfather,” said Celia, '’^what a lot of 
times he said over, ‘three black portmanteaux, 
four, no five canvas -covered, four carpet-bags, one 
— fourteen in all. Is that right, Helen ? ’ Grand- 
father’s something like Baby, he thinks no one 
can do anything right but himself; and there’s 


GOING AWAY. 


75 


Peters come on purpose to bother about these 
things.” (Peters was grandfather’s own servant.) 
“I wish grandfather wouldn’t fuss so. I hate 
people to think he’s a fussy old man, something 
like Mr. Briggs in Punch. As if he had never 
travelled before ! ” 

As may be imagined, these remarks of Celia’s 
were made in a low voice, for, of course, they 
were intended for the nursery party alone. Fritz 
flew up in grandfather’s defence. 

“Very flne. Miss Celia,” he said. “You may 
laugh at grandfather for fussing, but suppose he 
didn’t, and suppose that when we get to — oh, 
bother, I can’t say those French names — wherever 
it is we’re going to, suppose that Madamazelle 
Celia’s trunk was lost, and Madamazelle Celia 
hadn’t any best frocks or flounces, or Sunday hats, 
how would Madamazelle Celia look then? Per- 
haps she’d wish then that grandfather had fussed 
a little.” 

Celia turned to look for her bag, and having 
found it, she took out the book which she had 
brought with her to read on the way. 

“You’re too silly to speak to, Fritz,” she said; 
“I’m going to read.” 


76 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“So am I,” said Denny, who had likewise 
armed herself with a book, though she was rather 
a dunce for her age, and couldn’t read “run- 
ningly ” as French people say. But hig people 
always had books to read in the railway — that 
was enough for Denny, of course, to try to do 
so too. 

“ J’m going to 'take a nap, then,” said Fritz, 
who was really looking rather white and tired. 
He had been wakened out of a very sound sleep 
this morning, and had not been able to eat any 
breakfast. Lisa thought that taking a nap was 
the best thing he could do, so she got down a 
bundle of the rugs to make him a pillow, and 
helped him to tuck up his legs comfortably, and 
Fritz settled himself for his little sleep, making 
Lisa promise to waken him when they came to a 
big station. 

So everybody seemed inclined to be quiet. 
Herr Baby’s corner was by the window. He 
looked about him. Celia and Denny were buried 
in their books, Fritz seemed asleep already; of 
the big people at the other end, grandfather’s face 
was quite hidden in his newspaper, which he had 
kept over from last night on purpose ' to have 


GOING AWAY. 


77 


something to read in the train, knowing that they 
would start before the postman came in the morn- 
ing, and mother and auntie were talking together, 
softly, not to disturb him. 

“Should you like the window more open?” said 
grandfather, suddenly looking up. 

“No, thank you,” said auntie. “I think that 
little chink is enough. It is really very cold this 
morning.” 

“ How good the children are ! ” said mother. 
She spoke in a lower voice than auntie; but Baby 
heard her, for he had quick ears. “One could 
almost fancy they were all asleep.” 

“Yes,” said auntie, “if it would last all the 
way to Santino, or even to Paris ! ” 

“Or even to London!” said mother. “But 
they’ll all be jumping about like grasshoppers 
before long.” 

Then they went on talking softly again about 
other things; and Baby didn’t hear, and didn’t 
care to hear. Besides, he had already been taught 
a lesson that boys and girls cannot learn too 
young, which is, that to listen to things you are 
not meant to hear is a sort of cheating, for it is 
like taking something not meant for you. Of 


78 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


course, while auntie and mother were talking in 
a louder voice he could not help hearing, and it 
was no harm to listen, as if they had minded 
his hearing they would have spoken more in a 
whisper. 

Baby turned to his window to amuse himself 
by looking out. First he tried to count the tele- 
graph wires, but he could never be sure if there 
were eight or nine — he had not yet learnt to 
count higher than ten — for the top ones were so 
tiresome, they danced away out of sight, and all 
of a sudden danced down again, and sometimes 
they seemed to join together, so that he could not 
tell if they were one or two. He wondered what 
made them wave up and down so; whether there 
were men down in the ground that pulled them, 
and what they did it for; he had heard of “send- 
ing telegrams,” and Denny had told him it meant 
sending messages on wires, but he did not know 
that these were the wires used for that. He 
fancied these wires must have something to do 
with the railway; perhaps they were to show the 
people living in the fields that the trains were 
coming, so that they shouldn’t get in the way 
and be “runned over.” This made Baby begin 


GOING AWAY. 


79 


to think of the people living in the fields; they 
were just then passing a little cottage standing 
all by itself. It looked a nice cottage, and it 
had a sort of little garden round it, and some 
cocks and hens were picking about. Baby looked 
back at the little cottage as long as he could see 
it; he wondered who lived in it, if there were 
any little boys and girls, and what they did all 
day. He wondered if they went to school, or if 
perhaps they sometimes went messages for their 
mother, and if they weren’t frightened if they had 
to pass through the wood, which by this time 
the train was running along the edge of. Could 
this be Red Riding Hood’s wood, perhaps? Baby 
shuddered as this idea came into his mind. Or 
it might be the wood that Hop-o’-my-thumb and 
his six brothers had to make their way through, 
where the birds would pick the crumbs they 
dropped to show the path. It would be very 
“dedful” for seven little boys to be lost in a 
wood like that, and still worse for one little boy all 
alone. Baby was very glad that when little hoys 
had to go through woods now it was in nice rail- 
way carriages with mothers and aunties and every- 
bodies with them. But even in this way the 


80 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


wood made him feel a very little frightened; just 
then it got so much darker. He looked up to 
see if they were all still reading or asleep; he 
almost thought he would ask Lisa to take him on 
her knee a little, when, all of a sudden, the “rail- 
way,” as he called it, screamed out something very 
sharp and loud, the rattle and the noise got 
“bummier” and yet sharper; Baby could see no 
trees, no fields, “no nothing.” What could it 
be? It was worse than the wood. 

“Oh, Lisa,” cried poor Herr Baby, “the rail- 
way horses must have runned the wrong way. 
We’s going down into the cellars of the world.” 

Lisa caught him up in her arms and comforted 
him as well as she could. It was only a tunnel, 
she told him, and she explained to him what a 
tunnel was, just a sort of passage through a hill, 
and that there was nothing to be frightened at. 
And she persuaded him to look up and see what 
a nice little lamp there was at the top of the 
carriage, on purpose to light them up while they 
were in the dark. Baby was quite pleased when 
he saw the little lamp. 

“Who put it zere?” he said. “Were it God?” 

He was rather disappointed when Lisa told him 


GOING AWAY. 


81 


that it was the railway men who put it up, but 
then he thought again that it was very kind of 
the railway men, and that it must have been God 
who taught them to be so kind, which Lisa quite 
agreed in. But even though the little lamp was 
very nice. Baby was very pleased to get out of 
the tunnel, and out of the rumbly, rattly noise, 
into the open daylight again, with the beautiful 
sun shining down at them out of the sky. For 
the day was growing brighter as it went on, and 
the air was a little frosty, which made everything 
look clear and fresh. 

“Nice sun,” said Baby, glancing up at his old 
friend in the sky, “that’s the bestest lamp of all, 
isn’t it? and it were God put it up there.” 

After that he must, I think, have taken a little 
nap in Lisa’s arms almost without knowing it, for 
he didn’t seem to hear anything more or to think 
where he was or anything, till all of a sudden he 
heard mother’s voice speaking. 

“Won’t Baby have a sandwich, Lisa? And 
Denny, why, have you been asleep too, Denny?” 

And sitting up on Lisa’s knee, all rosy and 
dimpled with sleeping, his fair curls in a pretty 
tumble about his eyes. Baby saw Denny, looking 
very sleepy too, but trying hard to hide it. 


82 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“Oh,” she said, smoothing down her hair and 
sitting up very straight, “I’ve been reading such 
a long time that my eyes got quite tired; that 
was why I shut them.” 

“Oh indeed!” said mother, but Baby could see 
that she was smiling at Denny, though she didn’t 
laugh right out like Fritz and Celia. 

They were all very happy, however, with their 
sandwiches and buns, and after they had eaten as 
much as they wanted, auntie taught them a sort 
of guessing game, which helped to pass the time, 
for already Denny and Fritz were beginning to 
think even the big saloon carriage rather a small 
room to spend a whole day in. 

They passed two or three big stations, and 
then they were allowed to get out and walk up 
and down the platform a little, which was a nice 
change. But Baby was so dreadfully afraid of 
any of them being left behind that he could 
hardly be persuaded to get out at all, and once 
when he and Lisa were waiting alone in the car- 
riage while the others walked about, and the train 
moved on a little way to another part, he 
screamed so loudly — 

“ Oh, mother, oh, auntie, oh, ganfather, and 


GOING AWAY. 


83 


Celia, and Fritz, and Denny! All, all is left 
behind!” — that there was quite a commotion in 
the station, and when the train moved back again, 
and they all got in, he was obliged to kiss and 
hug each one separately, several times over, before 
he could feel quite sure he had them all safe and 
sound, and that “not nobody” was missing. 

It seemed a long time after it got dark, even 
though the little lamp was still lighted. But it 
was not light enough to see to read, and “the big 
lamp up in the sky,” as Baby said, “was kite 
goned away.” It puzzled him very much how the 
sun could go away every night and come back 
every morning, and the queerest thing of all was 
what Celia had told him — that “away there,” in 
the far-off country where they were going, there 
would still be the same sun, the very same sun, 
that they had seen every morning peeping up 
behind the kitchen-garden wall, and whose red 
face they had said good-night to on the winter 
evenings, as he slipped away to bed down below 
the old elms in the avenue, where the rooks had 
their nests. Somehow as Baby sat in his corner, 
staring out now and then at the darkness through 
which they were whizzing, blinking up sometimes 


84 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


at the little lamp shining faintly in the roof, 
there came before his mind the pictures of all 
they had left behind; he seemed to see the garden 
and the trees so plain, and he thought how very, 
very quiet and lonely it must seem there now, 
and Baby’s little heart grew sad. He felt so 
sorry for all the things they had left — the rabbits 
and the pussy most of all, of course, but even for 
the dear old trees, and the sweet, “ denkle ” 
flowers in the garden ; even for the tables and 
chairs in the house he felt sorry. 

“Him’s poor little bed will be so cold and 
lonely,” he said to himself. “Him sinks going 
away is worry sad.” 


CHAPTER V. 


BY LAND AND SEA. 

“ So the wind blew softly, 

And the sun shone bright.” 

Gkandfather had fixed that it would be best 
to go straight through at once to the seaport, 
where, the next morning, they would find the 
’normous boat waiting to take them over the sea. 
They had to pass through London on the way, 
and, by the time they got to the big London 
station. Baby was very tired — so white and quiet 
that mother was a little frightened. 

“I almost wish,” she said, “that we had fixed 
to stay all night in London. Baby has never 
had a long railway journey before, since he was 
a real baby, you know, and he is not very strong.” 

She was speaking to auntie. It was just when 
they were getting near the big London station. 
Auntie looked at Baby. He was lying on Lisa’s 
knee with his eyes shut, as if he were asleep, 
but he wasn’t. He heard what they said, and he 


85 


86 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


was rather pleased at them talking about him. In 
some ways he was very fond of being made a 
fuss about. 

“He does look a little white shrimp,” said 
auntie. “But then you know, May, he is so fair. 
He looks more quickly white if he is tired than 
other children. And he has been such a good 
little man all day — not one bit of trouble. He 
is really a capital traveller — ever so much quieter 
than the others.” 

She said these last few words in a low tone, 
not caring for the other children to hear; but if 
she had spoken quite loud I don’t think they 
would have heard, and, indeed, it seemed as if 
they wanted to show that auntie’s words were 
true; for just at that moment there came such a 
scream from Denny that everybody started up in 
a fright. 

What could be the matter? everybody asked. 

“It’s all Denny,” said Fritz, in a great fuss. 

“It’s not; it’s all Fritz and Celia,” said Denny. 

“It’s both of them,” said Celia. “Mother, I 
wish you wouldn’t let them be near each other. 
Denny put her hand into the dormice’s cage when 
Fritz wasn’t looking, and she poked out Tim, 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


87 


who was just beginning to come awake for the 
night, and she as nearly as could be got his tail 
pulled off, and then, when Fritz caught her, she 
screamed.” 

“Fritz snipped my hand in the little door of 
the cage,” sobbed Denny. “And Celia always 
takes Fritz’s part.” 

Celia was beginning to “answer back,” when 
auntie stopped her by a look — the children were 
sometimes rather afraid of auntie’s “looks.” 

“Dear me, young people,” said grandfather from 
his end of the carriage, “you might be peaceable 
for five minutes, and then we shall be in London, 
and you shall have a good tea before we go on 
again.” 

The children all grew quiet. They were glad 
to hear of tea, and they were a little ashamed of 
themselves. Auntie moved over to their end of 
the carriage. 

“Him would like some tea too, p’ease,” said 
Baby, as she passed him, and auntie patted his 
head. 

“They are all tired, I suppose,” said mother; 
“but it really is too silly, the way they quarrel 
about nothing.” 


88 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERR BABY. 


“Auntie,” said Celia softly, “I think it was 
partly my fault. Denny and Fritz asked me to 
tell them a story, and I wouldn’t. It would have 
kept them quiet.” 

“Well, never mind now,” said auntie. “You 
must all try and be very good to-morrow. This 
is only the first day, you know. You can’t be 
expected to be very clever travellers yet. And 
the very first lesson to learn in travelling is — do 
you know what?” 

“Not to lose your things?” said Celia. 

“To be ready in time?” said Fritz. 

“To sit still in the railway?” said Denny, 
rather meekly. 

“All those are very good things,” said auntie; 
“but they’re not the thing I was thinking of. It 
was to keep your temper ^ 

The children got rather red, but I don’t think 
any one noticed, for already the train was slacken- 
ing, and in another minute or two they all got 
out and were standing together on the bustling 
platform, dimly lighted up by the gas lamps, which 
looked yellow and strange in the foggy air of a 
London November evening. 

“Is zit London?” said Baby, and when Celia 


J 





V 


t 




I 


; 


.... t 




Poor Little Boys, for, after all, Fritz himself wasn’t very Big! 
They stood together Hand in Hand on the Station Platform, look- 


ing, AND FEELING, RATHER DESOLATE.— p. 89. 







BY LAND AND SEA. 


89 


said “yes,” lie added rather mournfully, “Him 
doesn’t sink London’s pitty at all.” 

Poor little boys, for, after all, Fritz himself 
wasn’t very big! They stood together hand in 
hand on the station platform, looking, and feeling, 
rather desolate. Lisa was busy helping with the 
rugs and bags that had been in the carriage ; 
mother and auntie, as well as grandfather and 
Peters and the maid, were all busy about the 
luggage. 

“Stay there a moment, children,” said some- 
body; but Denny had no idea of staying anywhere. 
Off she trotted to have a look at the luggage too, 
and Celia was half inclined to follow her, when 
her glance fell on her two little brothers. 

“Celia,” said Baby, catching hold of her, “don’t 
go away too. Fritz is taking care of him, but we 
might be lostened.” 

He spoke rather timidly, and Celia’s heart was 
touched. She was a good deal older than the 
others — nearly twelve — Fritz and Denny were 
very near in age, and sometimes Celia was a little 
cross at mother for not making difference enough, 
as she thought, and for keeping her still a good 
deal in the nursery. Mother had her own good 


90 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


reasons, and it is not always wise for big people 
to tell children their reasons, as Celia got to know 
when she grew wiser and bigger herself. She 
sometimes spoke rather crossly to the younger 
ones, and it made them a very little afraid of her, 
but in her heart she was kind. Just now she 
stooped down to kiss Baby. 

“Don’t be frightened, poor old man,” she said, 
“you won’t be lost. Fritz wouldn’t let you be 
lost, would you, Fritz?” 

Fritz brightened up at that, as Celia had meant 
he should. He, too, had been feeling a little 
strange and queer — the long journey and the 
sleeping in the day, all so different from their life 
at home, had rather upset him — but he would not 
have liked to say so! And now he was quite 
pleased at Celia telling Baby that, of course, Fritz 
was big enough to take care of him. It is so easy 
for children — bigger ones above all — to please 
each other and give nice feelings, when they really 
try to feel with each other and for each other. 

The little boys looked much happier a few min- 
utes later, when they were seated at tea in a 
comfortable corner of the refreshment room. 
Grandfather had sent Peters on, as soon as they 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


91 


had got the luggage all safe, to see that a table 
was placed for them by themselves. He, himself, 
went off to get some real dinner, for, of course, it 
was not to be expected that a gentleman, and 
especially an old gentleman, would be contented 
with tea, and bread and butter, and buns, however 
nice, but, to the children’s great pleasure, mother 
and auntie said they would far rather stay and 
have tea with the little people. 

“It is ^ good thing, isn’t it, for them to stay 
with us?” said Fritz to Celia, confidentially, “for 
we are none of us very big, are we? And you 
know we might get lost somehow, as Baby says, 
though I wouldn’t say so to him for fear of 
frightening him, you know.” 

“No, of course not,” said Celia, and looking up 
she was pleased to see mother smiling at her. 
Mother saw that Celia was trying to be kind and 
helpful, and she did so like to see the way the 
little ones clung to Celia when she was gentle. 
Mother must have been something like Baby in 
her mind, I think, for when she looked at the boys 
sitting there in the strange, big station-room, their 
little faces grave and rather tired-looking, a sort 
of sorry feeling came over her too, as she thought 


92 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


of the snug, cosy nursery at home, and the neat 
nursery tea, with the pretty pink and white cups 
she had chosen, and the canaries and “Bully” 
twittering in the window. Poor “ calanies ” and 
poor Bully! they didn’t know where they had got 
to! They had slept nearly all day, thinking, as 
they were meant to think, that it was night, I 
suppose, but now they must have given up think- 
ing so, for they were fidgeting about in their 
cages in an unhappy, restless sort of way. They 
had plenty of seed, and Celia and Lisa took care 
that they should have fresh water, but still, poor 
little things, they were not very happy. 

“Going away from their own home is really a 
trial for children,” thought mother. She was a 
little tired herself, and being tired makes every- 
thing seem the wrong way. 

But there was no help for it. They had all to 
make the best of things, and to set off again in 
another train and be rattled away to the sea. It 
was quite dark by now, of course, and it seemed 
very queer to start on another journey with so 
little rest between. I think, however, once they 
were all settled in the railway carriage, that the 
children slept the most of the way; Baby, at any 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


93 


rate, knew nothing more till he woke up to find 
himself in Lisa’s arms, with a cold, fresh air — 
the air of the sea — blowing in his face, and 
making him lift up his head and look about him. 

“Where is him?” he said. “Is him in the 
’normous boat?” 

“Not so, Herr Baby,” said Lisa. “He shall 
first be undressed and have a nice sleep all night 
in bed, to rest him well. Lie still, mine child, 
and Lisa will keep you warm.” 

“Him likes the wind,” said Baby. “It blowed 
his eyes open; him is quite awake now,” and he 
tried to sit straight up in Lisa’s arms. 

“Oh, Herr Baby, I cannot hold you so,” said 
Lisa. 

“There is such a little way to go,” said his 
mother, who was just behind, “lie still, dear, as 
Lisa tells you.” 

“Him would like to walk, him’s legs is so 
’tiff,” said Baby. “P’ease let him walk if it’s 
such a little way!” 

His voice was so piteous that mother told Lisa 
to let him walk; they were going from the station 
to the hotel, a very little way, as mother had said. 
Lisa put Baby down on the ground; at first he 


94 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


really tumbled over, his legs felt so funny, but 
with Lisa’s hand he soon got his balance again. 
It was a very dark night; they could not have 
seen their way but for the lights of the station 
and the town. 

“ What a dark countly zit is ! ” said Herr Baby. 
“Is there no moon in zit countly? Denny says 
in her hymn ‘the moon to shine by night,’ is 
there no moon ’cept in him’s own countly?” 

“ What are you chattering about, little man ? ” 
said auntie. 

“He’s asking about the moon, auntie; he wants 
to know if there isn’t any moon here. He thinks 
we’ve left it behind at home,” said Denny. 

A sort of roar from poor Baby interrupted her. 

“Oh, Denny, don’t, don't say that,” he cried, 
“it makes him sink of the labbits, and Thomas, 
and Jones, and the trees, and the flowers, and 
him’s dear little bed, and all the sings we’se 
leaved behind. Him doesn’t like you to speak of 
leaved behind.” 

“Poor Baby,” said Denn}^, “I’m so sorry.” She 
stooped down to kiss him, but it was so dark it 
wasn’t easy to find his mouth, and she only man- 
aged to kiss the tip of his nose, which was as 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


95 


cold as a little dog’s. This made Herr Baby 
begin laughing, which was a good thing, wasn’t 
it? And he was so taken up in explaining to 
Lisa how funny it felt when Denny kissed his 
nose, that he had not time to think of his sorrows 
again till they were at the foot of the large flight 
of steps leading up to the big hotel where they 
were to sleep. 

“Nice big house,” said Baby, looking round; 
and as he caught sight of some of the waiters 
running about, he asked Lisa if “them was new 
servants instead of Thomas and Jones.” 

“Him likes Thomas and Jones best,” he went 
on, the corners of his mouth going down again, 
so that Lisa was obliged to assure him the ser- 
vants were not going to be instead of Thomas and 
Jones, they were all only just going to stay one 
night at this big house, and to-morrow they 
would set off in the great ship to cross the sea. 

The mention of the ship fortunately gave a new 
turn to Baby’s thoughts; and he allowed Lisa to 
take him upstairs- and warm him well before a 
good fire before she undressed him and put him 
to bed. The other children thought it great fun 
to sleep in strange rooms, in beds quite unlike 


96 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


those they had at home, and to have to hunt for 
their nightgowns and brushes and sponges in two 
or three wrong carpet-bags before they came to the 
right one ; but Baby’s spirits were rather depressed, 
and it was not easy to keep him from crying in 
the sad little way he had when his feelings were 
touched. 

“He is tired, poor little chap,” said auntie, as 
she kissed him for good-night. “It is ever so 
much later than he has ever been up before. It 
is nearly ten.” 

“Him were up till ten o’clock on Kissmass,” said 
Herr Baby, brightening up. “ Him were up dedful 
late, till, till, p’raps till near twenty o’clock.” 

Auntie would have liked to laugh, but she took 
care not, for when Baby was in this sort of humour 
there was no telling whether other people’s laugh- 
ing might not make him take to crying, so she 
just said, 

“Indeed! That must have been very late; well, 
go to sleep now, and sleep till twenty o’clock 
to-morrow morning, if you like. We don’t need 
to start early,” she added, turning to Lisa; and 
I think poor Lisa was not sorry to hear it! 

If I were to go on telling you, bit by bit, all 

N 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


97 


about the journey, and everything that happened 
big and little, it would take a good while, and I 
don’t know that you would find it very interest- 
ing. Perhaps it is better to take a jump, as 
people do in real big story books, and to go 
on with Herr Baby’s adventures a few days 
later, when he, and Denny, and Fritz, and Celia, 
and Lisa, and mother, and auntie, and grandfather, 
and the “bully,” and the “calanies,” and Tim, and 
Peepy-Snoozle, and Linley, mother’s maid, and 
Peters, grandfather’s man, and I forget if there 
was any one else, but I think not; and all the 
boxes and carpet-bags, and railway-rugs, were 
safely arrived at Santino, the pretty little town 
with mountains on one side and the sea on the 
other, where they were all going to spend the 
winter. I must not forget to tell you one thing, 
however, which, I dare say, some of you who may 
have crossed “over the sea,” and found it 
very delightful, may be anxious to know about. 
I mean about the voyage in the ’normous boat, 
which Baby had been so looking forward to, poor 
little fellow. 

Well, wasn’t it lucky, he was not at all disap- 
pointed? They had the loveliest day that ever 


98 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


was seen, and Baby thought ’normous boats far 
the nicest way of travelling, and he couldn’t 
understand why grandfather couldn’t make them 
go all the way to Santino in the nice boat, and 
when they explained to him that it couldn’t be, 
because- there was no sea for boats to go on all 
the way, he thought there must have been some 
great mistake in the way the world was made. 
And when they got to Santino, and the first thing 
he saw wa8 the sea, blue and beautiful like a fairy 
dream. Baby was quite startled. 

“Mother, auntie!” he said, reproachfully, “you 
toldened him there weren’t no sea.” 

“We didn’t mean that. Baby, dear,” said 
mother; “we meant that, there was no sea to 
come the shortest way; we would have had to 
come all round the land, and it would have been 
much longer. Look, it is like this,” and mother 
traced with her parasol a sort of map on the sand, 
to show Baby that they had come a much nearer 
way. For they were standing by the sea-shore at 
the time. 

“Yes,” said Herr Baby, after looking on with- 
out speaking for a minute or two, “him under- 
’tands now.” 


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. — p. 99. 


“Abb that Jogkaphy?” he said 




BY LAND AND SEA. 


99 


“So you’ve had your first lesson in geography,” 
said auntie. 

Baby stared up at her. 

“Are that jography?” he said. “Him thought 
jography were awful, dedful difficult. Denny is 
so werry c’oss when her has jography to learn.” 

“Oh, because, of course, you know,” said Denny, 
getting rather red, “wy jography is real jography, 
with books and maps and ever so long rows of 
names to learn. Baby’s so stupid — he always 
takes up things so; he’ll be thinking now that if 
he makes marks on the sand, he’ll be learning 
jography.” 

Denny turned away with a very superior air. 
Baby looked much hurt. 

“Him’s not stupid, are him?” he said; and in 
a moment Celia and Fritz were hugging him and 
calling Denny a naughty, unkind girl to tease 
him. Mother and auntie had walked on a little, 
so things might have gone on to a quarrel if Lisa 
hadn’t stopped it. 

“Mine children,” she said, “it is too pity to 
be not friendly together. See what one beauti- 
fullest place this is — sky so blue and sea so blue, 
and all so bright and sunny. One should be 
nothing but happy here.” 


100 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERR BABY. 


“Yes,” said Celia, looking round, “it is an 
awfully pretty place.” 

Celia, you see, was just beginning to be old 
enough to notice really beautiful things in a way 
that when children are very little, they cannot 
quite understand, though some do much more than 
others. 

“It is a very pretty place,” she said again, as if 
she were speaking to herself, for Fritz and Denny 
had taken it into their heads to run races, of 
which Lisa was very glad, and Celia stood still 
by herself, looking round at the lovely sea and 
sky, and the little white town perched up above, 
with the mountains rising behind. Suddenly a 
little hand was slipped into hers. 

“Him would like to live here everways,” said 
Baby’s voice; “it are so pitty — somefin like 
Heaven, p’raps.” 

“I don’t know,” said Celia, “I suppose Heaven 
must be prettier than anything we could fancy.” 

“There’s gold streets in Heaven, Lisa says,” 
said Baby; “him sinks blue sky streets would be 
much pittier.” 

“So do I,” said Celia. 

Then they walked on a little, watching Fritz 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


101 


and Denny, already like two black specks in front 
— they had run on so far — and, somehow, in the 
very bright sunshine, one seemed to see less 
clearly. Mother and auntie were in front too, 
and when Fritz and Denny raced back again, quite 
hot and out of breath, mother said it was time 
for them all to go in; it was still rather too hot 
to be out much near the middle of the day, 
though it was already some way on in November, 
and next month would be the month that Christ- 
mas comes in! 

“How funny it seems,” said Celia. “Why, 
when we left home it was quite winter. Just 
think how we were wrapped up when we started 
on the journey, and now we’re quite warm enough 
with nothing at all over our frocks.” 

“It may be cold enough before long,” said 
mother, who was more accustomed to hot climates 
than the children; “sometimes the cold hereabouts 
comes quite suddenly, and it even seems colder 
from having been so warm before. I dare say you 
will be glad of your thick clothes before Christ- 
mas. But we must get on a little quicker, or else 
grandfather will be in a hurry for his breakfast.” 

“ Ganfather’s werry lazy not to have had him’s 


102 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


breakfast yet,” said Bab}^ Him^s had him^s break- 
fast ever so long ago, hundreds of years ago.” 

“Oh, Baby,” said Denny, “how you do ’sagger- 
ate! It couldiiH have been hundreds of years ago, 
because, you know, you weren’t born then.” 

“Stupid girl!” said Baby, “how does you 
know? you wasn’t there.” 

“Well, you weren’t there,” said Denny again. 

“Children, don’t contradict each other. It’s 
not nice,” said auntie. 

“Him didn’t begin,” said Baby, “ ’twere Denny 
beginned.” 

“I didn’t. I only said once that Baby wasn’t 
born hundreds of years ago,” said Denny, “and 
then he — ” 

“Onst is as wurst as twicet,” said Baby. 

Mother turned round at this. There was a 
funny look on her face, but still she spoke rather 
gravely. 

“Baby, I don’t know what’s coming over you,” 
she said. “It isn’t like you to speak like that.” 

Baby’s face grew red, and he turned his head 
away. 

“Him didn’t mean zeally that ganfather were 
lazy,” he said, in a low voice. 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


103 


“It wasn’t that I was vexed with you for,” said 
mother. “I know you were joking when you said 
that. I meant what you said to Denny.” 

“Him’s werry sorry,” said Baby, on the point 
of tears. 

“Never mind. Don’t cry about it,” said 
mother, who really wanted the children to be very 
good and happy this first day. And she was a 
little afraid of Baby’s beginning to cry, for, some- 
times^ once he had begun, it was not very easy to 
stop him. 

“You don’t understand about grandfather and 
his breakfast,” said auntie. “Here nobody has 
big breakfast when they first get up except you 
children, who have the same that you have at home.” 

“No we don’t,” said Denny. “At home we 
have bread and milk every day except Sunday — 
on Sunday we have bacon or heggs, because that’s 
the nothing-for-breakfast day.” 

Auntie stared at Denny. 

“Really, Denny,” she said, “it is sometimes a 
little difficult to be sure that you have got all 
your senses. How can you have ‘nothing for 
breakfast ’ when you have bacon, and — who in the 
world ever taught you to say ‘heggs’?” 


104 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“I meant to say ‘neggs,’” said Denny very 
humbly. “Grandfather laughed at me because I 
didn’t say ‘hippotamus ’ right — I called it a 
‘nippotamus,’ and he made me say ‘hi-hi-hip,’ and 
that’s got me into the way of saying it to every- 
thing, like calling a negg, a hegg.” 

“J. negg^^^ repeated auntie slowly. “Can’t you 
hear any difference between ‘a negg,’ and ‘an 
egg ’ ? Spell, a-n an, e-g-g egg.” 

Denny repeated it. 

“What dedful jography Denny’s having,” ob- 
served Baby; “I can say a negg^ quite right.” 

“And so you too call ‘a negg’ nothing for 
breakfast?” said auntie. 

“Neggs and bacon is nothing for breakfast,” 
answered Baby. 

“Auntie,” said Fritz, “you don’t understand. 
We call it nothing for breakfast when there’s not 
bread-and-milk, you know, for on bread-and-milk 
days we have just one little cup of tea and a bit 
of bread-and-butter after the bread-and-milk. But 
on Sundays, and birthdays, there’s nothing for the 
firsts and so we get better things, more like big 
people, and tea, and whatever there is, as soon 
as we begin. That’s why we like ‘nothing for 
breakfast,’ do you see, auntie?” 


BY LAND AND SEA. 


105 


“I see,” said auntie, “but I certainly couldn’t 
have guessed. I hope there’s something for break- 
fast to-day for us, for I’m very hungry, and look, 
there’s grandfather coming out to meet us, which 
looks as if he were hungry too. And what have 
you to say to it, old man?” she added, as Herr 
Baby came up the steps, one foot at a time, of 
course, “aren’t you hungry after your walk?” 

“Him’s hungry for him’s dinner^ but not for 
him’s breakfast; in course not,” said Baby, with 
great dignity. 


CHAPTER VI. 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 

“ Innocent face with the sad sweet eyes, 

Smiling on us through the centuries.” 

Baby and Fritz went out a walk that afternoon 
in the town with auntie and Lisa. Celia and 
Denny had gone for a drive with mother and 
grandfather, which the big people thought would 
make a good division. Grandfather was very fond 
of children, but in a carriage, he used to say, two 
small people were enough of a good thing. So 
Celia and Denny worried Lisa to get out their 
best hats and jackets — which were not unpacked, 
as grandfather had not yet decided whether they 
should stay at the hotel or get a house for them- 
selves — and set off in great spirits on the back 
seat of the carriage. 

Fritz and Baby were in very good spirits too. 
Fritz wanted to walk along the sort of front 
street of the town which faced the sea, for he was 
never tired of looking at boats and ships. Baby 
106 




AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


107 


liked them too, but what he most wanted to see 
was the shops. Baby was very fond of shops. 
He was fond of buying things, but before he 
bought anything he used to like to be quite sure 
which was the best shop to get it at — I mean to 
say at which shop he could get it best — and he 
often asked the price two or three times before 
he fixed. And he had never before seen so many 
shops or such pretty and curious ones as there 
were at Santino, so he was quite delighted, though 
if you hadn’t known him well you would hardly 
have guessed it, for he trotted along as gi-ave as 
a little judge, only staring about him with all 
his eyes. 

And indeed there were plenty of things to stare 
at. Fritz’s tongue went very fast. He wanted 
auntie to stop every minute to look at something 
wonderful. The carts drawn by oxen pleased him 
and Baby very much. 

“That’s the working cows they told us about,” 
said Fritz. “ They’re very nice, but I think I 
like horses best, don’t you. Baby?” 

“No, him likes cows best,” said Baby, “when 
him’s a man him will have a calliage wif hun- 
dreds of cows to pull it along, and wif lots and 


108 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


lots of gold bells all tinkling. Won’t that be 
lubly?” 

“Not half so nice as a lot of ponies, all with 
bells,” said Fritz, “they’d make ever so much 
more jingling, ’cos they go so fast. Isn’t it 
funny to see all the women with handkerchers on 
their heads and no bonnets. Baby?” 

“When him’s a man,” said Baby again — he 
was growing more talkative now — “when him’s a 
man, him’s going to have auntie and Lisa,” 
auntie and Lisa came first, of course, because they 
happened to be in his sight, “and mother, and 
Celia, and Denny all for his wifes, and them shall 
all wear most bootly hankerwifs on them’s heads, 
red and blue and pink and every colour, and gold 
— lots of gold.” 

“Thank you,” said auntie, “but by that time 
my hair, for one, will be quite gray; I shall be 
quite an old woman. I don’t think such splendid 
trappings would suit me.” 

“Him said handkerwifs^ not traps — him doesn’t 
know what traps is,” said Baby. “And him will 
be werry kind to you when you’re old. Him will 
always let you come in and warm yourself, and 
give you halfpennies,” 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


109 


“Thank you, dear, I’m sure you will,” said 
auntie. But she and Fritz looked at each other. 
That was one of Herr Baby’s ideas, and they 
couldn’t get him to understand, so mother settled 
it was better to leave it and he’d understand of him- 
self when he grew bigger. He thought that every- 
body^ however rich and well off they might be, had 
to grow quite, quite poor, and to beg for pennies in 
the streets before they died. Wasn’t it a funny 
fancy? It was not till- a good while afterwards 
that mother found out that what had made him 
think so was the word “old.” He couldn’t under- 
stand that growing old could mean only growing 
old in years — he thought it meant as well, poor 
and worn-out, like his own little old shoes. Just 
now it would have been no good trying to explain, 
even if mother had quite understood what was in 
his mind, which she didn’t till he told her him- 
self long after. For it only made him cry when 
people tried to explain and he couldn’t explain 
what he meant. There was nothing vexed him so 
much! And I think there was something rather 
nice mixed up with this funny idea about getting 
old. It made Baby wish to be so kind to all 
poor old people. He would look at any poor old 


110 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


beggar in such a strange sad way, and he always 
legged to be allowed to give them a penny. And, 
though no one knew of it, in his own mind he 
was thinking that his dear little mother or his 
kind auntie would be like that some day, and he 
would like rich little boys to be kind to them 
then, just as he was now to other poor old peo- 
ple. Of course, he said to himself, “If him sees 
dear little mother and auntie when they get old, 
him will take care of them and let them rest at 
his house every time they come past, but p'^raps 
him might be far away then.” 

And sometimes, when grandfather spoke about 
getting old and how white his hair was growing. 
Baby would look at him very gravely, for in his 
own mind he was wondering if the time was very 
soon coming for poor grandfather to be an old 
beggar-man. Baby thought it had to be, you see, 
he thought it was just what must come to 
everybody. 

Just as auntie and he had finished talking about 
getting old they turned a corner and went down 
a street which led them away from the view of 
the sea. This street had shops at both sides, and 
some of them were very pretty, but they were 





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“Oh, Auntie,” he said, “p’ease ’top One Minute. 
Glass Jugs like Dear Little Mother’s. Oh, do 


Him sees Shiny 
’top.” — p. 111. 



AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


Ill 


not the kind of shops that the little boys cared 
much for — they were mostly dressmakers’ and 
milliners’ and shawl shops. Lots of grand dresses 
and hats and bonnets were to be seen, which would 
have pleased Celia and Denny perhaps, but which 
Fritz said were very stupid. Auntie did not seem 
to care for them either — she was in a hurry to go 
to an office where she was going to ask about a 
house that might do for them. So she walked 
on quickly, as quickly at least as Baby’s short 
legs could go, for she held him by the hand, and 
Fritz and Lisa came behind. They left this street 
in a minute and crossed through two or three 
others before auntie could find the one she wanted. 
Suddenly Baby gave her a tug. 

“Oh auntie,” he said, “p’ease ’top one minute. 
Him sees shiny glass jugs like dear little mother’s. 
Oh, do ’top.” 

Auntie stopped. They were passing what is 
called an old curiosity shop; it was a funny-look- 
ing place, seeming very crowded even though it 
was a large shop, for it was so very full of all 
sorts of queer things. Some among them were 
more queer than pretty, but some were very pretty 
too, and in one corner of the window there were 


112 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


several jugs, and cups, and bottles, and such 
things, of very fine glass, with the same sort of 
soft-coloured shine on it that Baby remembered 
in the two jugs that he had pulled down in the 
tiny trunk. Baby’s eyes had spied them out at 
once. 

“Look, look, auntie,” he said, again gently 
tugging her. 

“Yes, Baby dear, very pretty,” said auntie, but 
without paying much attention to the glass, for 
she was not thinking of Baby’s adventure in the 
pantry at the moment, and did not know what 
jugs of his mother’s he meant. 

“There is two just like mother’s,” said Baby, 
but he spoke lower now, almost as if he were 
speaking to himself. An idea had come into his 
mind which he had hardly yet understood himself, 
and he did not want to speak of it to any one 
else. He just stood at the window staring in, his 
two eyes fixed on the glass jugs, and the great 
question he was saying to himself was, “ How 
many pennies would they cost?” 

“Them’s a little smaller, him sinks,” he mur- 
mured, “but p’raps mother wouldn’t mind.” 

It was a mistake of his that they were smaller; 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


113 


they were really a little larger than the broken 
ones. Besides Baby had never seen the broken 
ones till they were broken. One of them had 
been much less smashed than the other, and 
mother had examined it to see if it could possibly 
be mended so as to look pretty as an ornament, 
even though it would never do to hold water, and, 
when she found nothing could be done, she had 
told Thomas to keep the top part of it as a sort 
of pattern, in case she ever had a chance of get- 
ting the same. I think I forgot to explain this 
to you before, and you may have wondered how 
Baby knew so well what the jugs had been like. 

“Them is a little smaller,” he said again to 
himself. He did not understand that things often 
look smaller when they are among a great many 
others of the same kind, and though there was 
not a very great deal of the shiny glass in the 
shop window, there was enough to make it rather 
a wonder that such a little boy as Baby had 
caught sight of the two jugs at all, for they were 
behind the rest. He had time to look at them 
well, for, though auntie had been rather in a 
hurry, she, too, stood still in front of the shop, 
for something had caught her eyes too. 


114 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“How very pretty, how sweet!” she said to her- 
self, “I wish I could copy it. It seems to me 
beautifully done,” and when Fritz, who had not 
found the shop so interesting as the others had 
done, in his turn gave her a tug and said, 
“Auntie, aren’t you coming?” she pointed out to 
him what it was she was so pleased with. 

“Isn’t it sweet, Fritz?” said auntie. 

“Yes,” said Fritz, “but it’s rather dirty, auntie, 
isn’t it?” 

Fritz was very, what is called, practical. The 
“it” that auntie was speaking about was an old 
picture, hanging up nn the wall at the side of 
the door. It was the portrait of a little girl, a 
very little girl, of not more than three or four 
years old. She had a dear little face, sweet and 
bright, and yet somehow a very little sad, or else 
it was the long-ago make of the dress, and the 
faded look of the picture itself, beside the baby- 
like face that made it seem sad. You couldn’t 
help thinking the moment you saw it, “Dear me, 
that little girl must be a very old woman by now 
or most likely she must be dead!” I think it 
was that that made one feel sad on first looking 
at the picture, for, after all, the face was bright 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


115 


and happy-looking : the rosy, roguish, little mouth 
was smiling, the soft blue eyes had a sort of 
twinkling fun in them, though they were so soft, 
and the fair hair, so fair that it almost seemed 
white, drawn up rather tight in an old-fashioned 
way, fell back again on one side as if little Blue- 
eyes had just been haying a good run. And one 
fat, dimpled shoulder was poked out of the prim 
white frock in a way that, I dare say, had rather 
shocked the little girl’s mother when the painter 
first showed her his work, for our little, old, great- 
great-grandfathers ’ and great-great-grandmothers ’ , 
children, must have had to sit very, very still in 
their very best and stiffest frocks and suits when 
their pictures were painted, poor little things ! 
They were not so lucky as you are nowadays, 
who have only to go to the photograph man’s for 
half an hour, and keep your merry faces still for 
a quarter of a minute, if your mothers want to 
have a picture of you! 

But Blue-eyes must have had some fun when 
her picture was painted, I think, or else that little 
shoulder wouldn’t have got leave to poke itself 
out of its sleeve, and there wouldn’t have been that 
mischievous look about the corners of her mouth. 


116 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


Isn't it a little dirty, auntie?” said Fritz. 

“Wouldn’t your face look a little dirty if it 
had been hanging up in a frame for over a hun- 
dred years?” said auntie, laughing, at which Fritz 
looked rather puzzled. 

Then auntie’s eyes went back to the picture 
again. 

“It is sweet,” she said, “very, very sweet, and 
so perfectly natural.” 

All this time, as I told you, Herr Baby’s whole 
mind had been given to the shiny glasses. Sud- 
denly the sound of his aunt’s voice caught his 
ear, and he looked up. 

“What is it that is so ’weet, auntie?” he said. 

“The picture over there, dear. Hanging up by 
the door. The little girl.” 

Baby looked up, and in a moment his eyes 
brightened. 

“ Oh, what a dear little baby ! ” he said. “ Oh, 
her is ’weet! Auntie, him would so like to kiss 
her.” 

“You darling!” said auntie, her glance turning 
from the sweet picture face above to the sweet 
living face beside her. “I wonder if you will 
ever learn to paint like that. Baby. I should 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


117 


very much like to copy it if I could have the 
loan of it. It would be sure to be very dear to 
buy,” she added to herself. “But we must hurry, 
my little boys,” she went on. “I was tempted to 
waste time admiring the picture, but we must be 
quick.” 

Fritz and Lisa turned away with auntie, but 
Baby waited one moment behind. He pressed his 
face close against the shop window and whispered 
softly, 

“Bitty little girl, him would like to kiss you. 
Him will come a ’nother day. P’ease, pitty little 
girl, don’t let nobody take away the shiny glasses, 
for him wants to buy them for mother.” 

Then, quite satisfied, he trotted down the street 
after the others, who were waiting for him. a few 
doors off. 

“Were you saying good-bye to the picture. 
Baby?” said auntie, smiling. 

“Yes,” said Baby gravely. 

Auntie soon found the office where she was to 
hear about the house they were thinking of 
taking. The little boys stood beside her and 
listened gravely while she asked questions about 
it, though they couldn’t understand what was said. 


118 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“ Him wishes the people in this countly 
wouldn’t talk lubbish talk,” said Herr Baby to 
Fritz with a sigh. “Him would so like to know 
what them says.” 

“/ want to know if we’re going to have a house 
with a garden,” said Fritz. “That’s all I care 
about,” and as soon as they were out in the street 
again, he asked auntie if “the man” had said there 
was a garden to the house. 

“There are several houses that I have to tell 
your grandfather about,” said auntie. “Some have 
gardens and some haven’t, but the one we like 
the best has a garden, though not a very big 
one.” 

“Not as big as the one at home?” said Fritz. 

“Oh dear no, of course not,” said auntie. “It 
is quite different here from at home. People only 
come to stay a short time, they wouldn’t care to 
be troubled with big gardens.” 

“I don’t mind,” said Fritz amiably, “if only it’s 
big enough for us to have a corner to dig in, and 
somewhere to play in when Lisa’s in a fussy 
humour.” 

“Mine child,” said Lisa mildly. Poor Lisa, she 
was not a very fussy person! Indeed she was 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 119 

rather too easy for such lively young people as 
Fritz and Denny. 

“And do you want a garden, too, very much. 
Baby?” said auntie. 

Baby had hardly heard what they were saying. 
His mind was still running on the shiny jugs 
and the blue-eyed little girl. 

“Him wants gate lots of pennies,” he said, which 
didn’t seem much of an answer to auntie’s question. 

“Lots of pennies, my little man,” said auntie. 
“What do you want lots of pennies for?” 

But Baby would not tell. 

Just then they saw coming towards them in the 
street two very funny-looking men. They had 
no hats or caps on their heads, so the children 
could see that they had no hair either, at least 
none on the top, where it was shaved quite off, 
and only a sort of fringe all round left. Then 
they had queer loose brown coats, with big capes, 
something like grandfather’s Inverness cloak, Fritz 
thought, and silver chains hanging down at their 
sides, and, queerest of all, no stockings or proper 
boots or shoes, only things like the soles of shoes 
strapped on to their bare feet. These were called 
sandals, auntie said, and she told the boys that 


120 


THE ADVENTUKES OF HERR BABY. 


these funny-looking men were monks, “Francis- 
cans,” she said they were called. They all lived 
together, and they never kept any money, and 
people said — but auntie thought that was not 
quite true — that they never washed themselves. 

“Nasty dirty men,” said Fritz, making a face. 
“I shouldn’t like to be a Franciscan.” 

“Not in winter, Fritz?” said Baby. “Him 
wouldn’t mind in winter when the water are so 
cold. Lisa,” he went on, turning round to his 
nurse, “’member — when the werry cold mornings 
comes, him’s going to be a Frantisker — will you 
’member, Lisa?” 

“But what about the pennies?” said auntie, 
laughing. “If you are a Frantisker, Baby, you 
won’t have any pennies, and you said just now 
you wanted a great Tot of pennies.” 

Baby looked very grave. 

“Then him won’t be a Frantisker,” he said 
decidedly. 

After that he spoke very little all the way home. 
He had a great deal on his mind, you see. And 
his last thought that night as he was falling 
asleep was, “Him are so glad him asked the little 
pitty girl to take care of the shiny jugs.” 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


121 


Funny little Herr Baby! How much was fancy, 
how much was earnest in his busy baby mind, 
who can tell? 

A few days after this, they all moved from the 
Hotel to the pretty house with a garden which 
auntie had gone to ask about. It was a pretty 
house. I wish I could show it to you, children! 
It had not only a garden but a terrace, and this 
terrace overlooked the sea, the blue sunny sea of 
the south. And from one side, or from a little 
farther down in the garden, one could see the 
white-capped mountains, rising, rising up into the 
sky, with sometimes a soft mist about their heads 
which made them seem even higher than they 
were, “high enough to peep into heaven,” said 
Baby; and sometimes, on very clear days, standing 
out sharply against the blue behind, so that one 
could hardly believe it would take more than a 
few minutes to run to the top and down again. 

There were many interesting things in this gar- 
den — things that the children had not had in the 
old garden at home, nice though it was. It was 
not so beautifully neat as the flower part of the 
garden at home, but I do not think the children 
liked it any the less for that. The trees and 


122 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


bushes grew so thickly that down at the lower 
end it was really like a wilderness, a most lovely 
place for hide-and-seek. Then there was a foun- 
tain, a real fountain, where the water actually 
danced and fell all day long; and all round the 
windows of the house and the trellised balcony 
there were the most lovely red shaded leaves, 
such as one never sees in such quantities in the 
north. And in among the stones of the terrace 
there lived lizards — the most delightful liza^ ^ 
One in particular grew so friendly that he u.e.; 
to come out at meal-times to drink a little milk 
which the children spilt for him on purpose; for 
the day nursery, or school-room, as Celia liked it 
to be called, opened on to the terrace too, though 
at the other end from the two drawing-rooms and 
grandfather’s “study,” and the windows were long 
and low, opening like doors, so that Lisa had 
hard work to keep the children quiet at table the 
first few days, for every minute they were jumping 
up to see some new wonder that they caught 
sight of. Altogether it was a very pretty home 
to spend the winter in, and every one seemed very 
happy. Bully and the “ calanies ” were as merry 
as larks, if it is true that larks are merrier than 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


123 


other birds, and Peepy-Snoozle and Tim, mistaking 
the bright warm sunshine for another summer, I 
suppose, got in the habit of being quite lively 
about the middle of the day as well as in the 
middle of the night, instead of spending all the 
daylight hours curled up like two very sleepy 
fairy babies with brown fur coats on, in their nice 
white cotton-wool nests. 

There was so much to do and to think of the 
first few days that I think Baby forgot a little 
about what he had seen in the old curiosity shop. 
Auntie, too, was too busy to give any thought to 
the picture which had so taken her fancy, though 
neither she nor Baby really forgot the dear little 
face with its loving, half-merry, half-sad blue 
eyes. But auntie had to help mother to get 
everything settled; and of course there was a good 
deal to explain to the strange servants, for 
neither Peters nor Linley the maid knew “lub- 
bish talk,” as Baby would call it, at all, and it 
was very funny indeed to hear Peters trying to 
make the cook understand how grandfather liked 
his cutlets, or Linley “pounding” at the house- 
maid, as Fritz called it, to get it into her head 
that she didn’t call it cleaning a room to sweep 


124 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


all the dirt into a corner where it couldn’t be 
seen ! Peters was more patient than Linley. 
When Linley couldn’t make herself understood 
she used to shout louder and louder, as if that 
would make the others know what she meant, and 
then she used to say to Celia that it really was 
“a very hodd thing that the people of this country 
seemed not to have all their senses.” And how- 
ever Celia explained to her, she couldrCt be got 
to see that she must seem just as stupid to them 
as they seemed to her! Peters was less put about. 
He had been in India with grandfather, so he 
said he was used to “furriners.” He seemed to 
think everybody that wasn’t English could be put 
together as “furriners”; but he had brought a 
dictionary and a book of little sentences in four 
languages, and he would sit on the kitchen table 
patiently trying one language after another on the 
poor cook, just as when one can’t open a lock, one 
tries all the keys one can find, to see if by chance 
one will fit. The cook was a very mild, gentle 
man; he had a nice wife and two little children 
in the town, and he was inclined to be very fond 
of Herr Baby, and to pet him if ever he got a 
chance. ’ But that wasn’t for a good while, for 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


125 


Baby was at first terribly frightened of him. He 
had a black moustache and whiskers and very 
black eyes, and they looked blacker under his 
square white cook’s cap, and the first time Baby 
saw him through the kitchen window, the cook 
happened to be standing with a large carving- 
knife in one hand, and a chicken which he was 
holding up by the legs in the other. Off flew 
Herr Baby. A little way down the garden he ran 
against Denny, who was also busy examining their 
new quarters. 

“Oh, Denny, Denny!” he cried, “this is a ded- 
ful place — there’s a’ ogre, a real tellable ogre in 
the house. Him’s seen him in one of the win- 
dows under the dimey-room. Oh, Denny, Denny, 
p’raps him’ll eaten us up.” 

Denny for the first moment was, to tell the 
truth, a little bit frightened herself. Common 
sense told her there were no such things as ogres, 
not nowadays anyway, at least not in England, 
their own country. But a dreadful idea struck 
her that this was not England; this might be one 
of the countries where ogres, like wolves and 
bears, were still occasionally to be found. There 
was no telling, certainly; but not for a good deal 


126 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


would Miss Denise Aylmer, a young lady of nine 
years old past^ have owned to being frightened as 
long as she could possibly help it. 

She caught Baby by the hand. 

“What sail we do?” he said; “sail we go and 
tell mother ? ” ^ 

Denny considered. 

“We’d better go and see again,” she said very 
bravely. “You must have made a mistake, I 
think. Baby dear. I don’t think there can be any 
ogres here.” 

Baby was much struck by Denny’s courage. 
His hand slipped back a very little out of hers. 

“Will you go and see, Denny?” he said. 
“Him will stay here till you comes back.” 

“Oh, no, you’d better come with me,” said 
Denny, who felt that even Baby was better than 
nobody. “I shouldn’t know where you saw the 
ogre,” and she kept tight hold of his hand. 
“Which window was it?” 

“It were at a tiny window really under the 
ground. Him was peeping to see if there was 
f’owers ’side of the wall,” said Baby. “Him’ll 
show you, Denny; him are so glad you isn’t 
f’ightened.” 


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Baby ventured to peep round. The Little Black-eyed, White-capped 
Man came toavards them smiling. — p. 127. 






AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


127 


They set off down the path, making their way 
rather cautiously as they got near the house. 
Suddenly Denny felt Baby squeeze her hand more 
tightly, and with a sort of scream he turned round 
and hid his face against her. 

“ There ! There ! ” he cried. “ Him sees the ogre 
coming.” 

Denny looked up. She saw a rather little man 
with a white apron and a white cap, carrying a 
couple of cackling hens or chickens in his arms, 
coming across the garden from the house. He 
was on his way to a little sort of poultry-yard, 
where he had fastened up half-a-dozen live chickens 
he had bought at the market that morning, mean- 
ing to kill two of them for dinner, but finding 
them not so fat as he had expected, he was put- 
ting them back among their friends for a day or 
two. Very like a real ogre, if Denny and Baby 
had understood all about it, which they didn’t. 

^ Denny herself, for a minute or two, felt puzzled 
as to who this odd-looking man could be. But 
he was no ogre^ that was certain, anyway. 

“Don’t be frightened. Baby, it’s not a’ ogre,” 
she said. “Look up, he’s far too little.” 

Baby ventured to peep round. The little black- 


128 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


eyed, white-capped man came towards them 
smiling. 

“ Bon jour, Mademoiselle, bon jour. Monsieur 
he said, looking quite pleased. And then 
he stroked down the ruffled feathers of the poor 
chickens, and held them out to the two children, 
chattering away at a great rate in Baby’s “lubbish 
talk,” hardly a word of which they understood. 

“ Can he be wanting to sell the chickens ? ” 
said Denny. 

The cook, who had before this lived with 
families from England, understood the children’s 
language better than they did his, which, however, 
is not saying a great deal. 

“Yes, Mees, pairfectly,” he said. “Me sell 
zem at ze march^ the morning. Fine poulets, 
goot poulets, not yet strong — wait one, two, 
’ree days — be strong for one grand dinner for 
Madame.” 

“Who are you? What’s your name, please?” 
said Denny, still a little alarmed. 

“Jean- Georges, Mademoiselle,” said the little 
man, with a bow. “ Jean-Georges compose charm- 
ing plates for Mademoiselle and Monsieur B^b^. 
Jean-Georges loves little messieurs and little 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


129 


’demoiselles. Madame permit Monsieur and Made- 
moiselle visit Jean-Georges in his cuisine one 
day.” 

Denny caught the word “cuisine,” which, of 
course, children, yon will know means “kitchen.” 

“He’s the cook. Baby,” she said, with great 
relief; “don’t yon remember grandfather said he 
must have a man cook? Good-morning, Mr. Cook, 
we’ll ask mother to let us go and see you one 
day in your kitchen, and you must make us very 
nice things to eat, please Mr. Cook.” 

“Pairfectly, Mademoiselle,” said Jean-Georges, 
with as magnificent a bow as he could manage, 
considering the two chickens in his arms, and 
then he walked away. 

“ What a very nice man ! ” said Denny, feeling 
very proud of herself, and quite forgetting that she, 
too, had not been without some fears. “You see. 
Baby dear, how foolish it is to be frightened. I 
told you there couldn’t be any ogres here.” 

Herr Baby did not answer for a moment. He 
had certainly very much admired Denny’s courage, 
but still he wasn’t quite sure that she had not 
been a very little afraid, just for a minute, when 
he had called out “ There he is ! ” 


130 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“What would you have done if there had been 
a’ ogre, Denny?” he said. 

“Oh, bother,” said Denny, “what’s the good of 
talking about things that couldnH be? Talk of 
something sensible. Baby.” 

Baby grew silent again. They walked on 
slowly down the garden path. 

“Denny,” said Baby, in a minute or two, 
“didn’t the little man say somefin about mother 
having a party?” 

Denny pricked up her ears at this. Parties of 
all kinds pleased her very much. 

“Did he?” she said, “I didn’t notice. He said 
something about Madame’s dinner, but I didn’t 
think he meant a dinner-parfy. Perhaps he did 
though. We’ll ask. I’d like mother to have some 
parties; it seems quite a long time since I had 
one of my best frocks on to come down to the 
drawing-room before dinner, the way we did at 
home. And I know mother and auntie have 
friends here. I heard that stupid little footman 
asking Linley what day ‘Miladi ’ would ‘receive,’ 
that means have visitors. Baby.” 

Denny’s tongue had run on so fast, that it had 
left Baby’s wits some way behind. They had 
stopped short at the first idea of a party. 


AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE. 


131 


“ Mother likes to make werry pitty dinners when 
she has parties,” he said. “Mother told him that 
were why she were so solly when him breaked 
hers pitty glasses.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, 
Baby,” said Denny. “Let’s have a race. I’ll 
give you a start.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


baby’s secret. 

“ ‘ Pussy, only you I’ll tell, 

For you can keep secrets well ; 

Promise, pussy, not a word.’ 

Pussy reared her tail and purred.” 

There was a cat at the Villa Ddsir^e, Baby’s, 
and Denny’s, and “all of them’s house,” as Baby 
would have called it. Where the cat came from 
I don’t know — whether it belonged to the villa 
and let itself out with it every winter, like the 
furniture, or whether it was really the cat of 
Madame Jean-Georges, and had followed Monsieur 
Jean- Georges back one evening when he had been 
home to see his “good friend” (that was what he 
called his wife), and his two “b^b^s,” is what I 
cannot tell. I only know the cat was there, and 
that when Baby could get a chance of playing 
with it he was very pleased. He didn’t often 
have a chance, in his own room, for “Mademoi- 
selle,” as Celia was always called by the new 


132 


baby’s secret. 


133 


servants, a title which she thought much nicer 
than “Miss Aylmer,” or “Miss Celia,” Mademoi- 
selle^ said “the stupid little footman,” had given 
strict orders that “Minet” was not to be allowed 
upstairs for fear of the “pets,” the “calanies,” 
and the Bully, and Peepy-Snoozle, and Tim, all of 
whom would have been very much to Minet ’s 
taste, I fear. It was very funny to see the way 
the little footman went “shoo-ing” at the poor 
cat the moment Celia appeared, for Celia had 
rather grand manners for her age, and the servants 
thought her very “distinguished,” especially the 
stupid little footman. But Herr Baby was very 
sorry for poor Minet; he had no particular pet 
of his own here, nothing to make up for his 
“labbits,” and so he took a great fancy to the 
pussy. 

“Poor little ’weet darling,” he would call it; 
“Celia’s a c’uel girl to d’ive Minet away, Minet 
wouldn’t hurt the calanies, or the Bully, or the 
s leepy -mouses ; Minet is far too good.” 

“Pray, how do you know. Baby?” Celia would 
say. “Cats are cats all the world over, every one 
knows that.” 

'"'‘Minet aren’t,” Baby would have it, “Minet 


134 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


has suts a kind heart. Him asked Minet if her 
would hurt the calanies and the sleepy-mouses, 
and her said ‘no, sairtingly not.’” 

“Baby!” said Denny, “what stories! Cats can’t 
talk. You shouldn’t tell stories.” 

“Minet can talk,” said Baby. “When him 
asks for somefin, her says ‘proo-proo-oo,’ and that 
means ‘yes,’ and if her means ‘no,’ her humps 
up her back and s’akes her tail. When him asked 
Minet if her would like to hurt the calanies, her 
humped up her back never so high, and sook and 
sook her tail, for no, wc, no!” 

Celia could not find an answer to this. Baby 
went on stroking Minet with great satisfaction, as 
if there was nothing more to be said. 

“All the same,” said Celia at last, “I don’t 
want Minet to come upstairs. She’s quite as 
happy downstairs, and, you see, it would frighten 
the birds and the dormice if they saw her, for 
they mightn’t understand that she wouldn’t, on 
any account, hurt them.” 

“Werry well,” said Baby, and he went on play- 
ing with his new pet. 

“Herr Baby,” said Lisa coming into the room a 
moment or two later; “mine child, how is it that 


baby’s secret. 


135 


your coat is so dirty? All green, Herr Baby, as 
if you had rubbed it on the wet grass.” 

“It’s with his poking in among the bushes by 
the kitchen window,” said Denny of the ready 
tongue; “yesterday, you know. Baby, when you 
thought — ” 

“Hush,” said Baby, “don’t talk to me. You 
distairb me and the cat — we’se busy.” 

Denny and Lisa looked at each other and 
smiled. 

“Pussy, pitty pussy, dear Minet,” went on Baby, 
who wanted to stop Denny’s account of his fears. 

“We’re going out, Herr Baby,” said Lisa. 
“ There are commissions for your lady mamma. 
We are to go to the patissier and — ” 

“Who are the pattyser?” said Baby. 

“The cumfectioner,” said Denny. 

Baby pricked up his ears. 

“We are to go to the patissier,” said Lisa, “to 
order some cakes for Miladi for to-morrow, when 
Miladi’s friends come to dine; and perhaps we 
will buy some little cake for Herr Babj^’s tea. 
Come, mine child, leave Minet, and come.” 

Herr Baby got up from the corner of the room 
where he had been embracing the cat; there was 


136 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


a grave 'look on his face, but he did not say any- 
thing till he was out on the road with Lisa. 
Denny was not with them; she had got leave to 
go a walk with Celia and the lady who came 
every day to give her French lessons, which 
Denny thought much more grand than going out 
with Baby and Lisa. 

“Lisa,” said Baby, after a few minutes, “are 
mother going to have a party?” 

“Not one very big party,” said Lisa, “just 
some Miladis and some Herren — some genkelmen 
— to dine.” 

“Will it look very pitty?” asked Baby. 

“Not so pretty as at Aomg,” said Lisa, who, now 
that she was away from it, of course looked upon 
The Manor — that was the name of “home” — as 
the most lovely place in the world; “there’s no 
nice glass, no nice pretty dishes here. And Fran- 
Qois, he is so dumm — how you say ‘dumm,’ Herr 
Baby?” 

“Dumm,” repeated Baby, exactly copying Lisa’s 
voice, staring up in her face. 

“No, mine child, how you say it of English? 
Ah — I knows — stupid. Fran9ois, he is too 
stupid. Peters and I, we will make the table so 


baby’s secret. 


137 


pretty as might be. Lisa will command some 
bon-bons.” 

“Mother will want the shiny jugs,” thought 
poor Baby. “Him should have brought him’s 
pennies. Him would like to know if him has 
’nuff pennies; perhaps him could go to the little 
girl’s shop when Lisa is at the pattyser’s.” 

But he said nothing aloud. How it was that 
he kept his thoughts to himself, why he had such 
a dislike to any one knowing what was in his 
mind, I cannot exactly tell; but so it was, and so 
it often is with very little children, even though 
quite frank and open by nature. Baby had, I 
think, a fear that mother might not like him to 
spend all his pennies on the shiny jugs, perhaps 
she might say she would pay them herself, and 
that would not have pleased him at all. Deep 
down in his honest little heart was the feeling 
that he had broken the glasses and he should pay 
for the new ones. But he said nothing to Lisa — 
he had never spoken of the jugs to her — mother 
had been “so kind,” never to tell any one about 
what a silly little boy he had been, for mother 
knew that he didn’t like being laughed at. Per- 
haps “they” would laugh at him now if he told 


138 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


about wanting to buy the shiny jugs — he 
wouldn’t mind so much if he had bought them, 
but “ ’appose they wouldn’t let him go to the 
shop to get them?” Poor little mother! She 
wouldn’t have her pitty glasses then for the party 
— no, it was much best to settle it all his own 
self. Whom he meant by “they” I don’t think 
Baby quite kncAV, he had a sort of picture in his 
mind of grandfather and auntie and mother all 
talking together, and Celia and Fritz and Denny 
all joining in, and saying that “Baby was far too 
little to go to shops to buy things.” And by the 
time he had thought this all over, Herr Baby 
glancing up — for till now he' had been walking 
along with Lisa’s hand, seeing and noticing noth- 
ing — found that they were already in the street 
of the town where the biggest shops were, and 
that Lisa was looking about to find the shop 
where she was to give the orders for his mother. 

It was a very pretty shop indeed — Baby had 
never seen such a pretty shop. The cakes and 
bon-bons were laid out so nicely on the tables 
round the wall, and they were all of such pretty 
colours. Baby walked round and round admiring, 
and, I think, considering he was such a very little 


baby’s secret. 


139 


boy, that it was very good of him not to think of 
touching any of the tempting dainties. In a few 
minutes Lisa had ordered all she wanted — then 
she chose some nice biscuits and a very few little 
chocolate bon-bons, which she had put up in two 
paper parcels, and when they came out of the 
shop she told Herr Baby that they were for him, 
his mother “had told her to get him something 
nice. Baby looked pleased, but still he seemed 
very grave, and Lisa began wondering what he 
was thinking of. 

“Are you tired, mine child?” she said. 

No, Herr Baby was not at all tired. He wanted 
to walk down the street to the other end to see 
all the shops, he wanted to see all the streets and 
all the shops before they went home. Lisa w^as 
rather amused. She had not known Herr Baby 
was so very fond of shops, she said, and it would 
take far too long to see them all. But she went 
to the end of that street with him, and then back 
again down the opposite side, and then he begged 
her to turn down the other street they had 
crossed on their way to the confectioner’s, and 
they had gone quite to the end of it, Baby staring 
in at all the shop windows in a way that really 


140 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERB BABY. 


made Lisa smile, for he looked so grave and 
solemn,, when all of a sudden, just as Lisa was 
thinking of saying they must go home. Baby gave 
a sort of little scream and almost jumped across 
the street. 

“Him sees it, him sees it,” he cried, and when 
Lisa asked him what he meant, all he would say 
was, 

“That’s the little street we went down with 
auntie the ’nother day,” and Lisa, who had forgot- 
ten all about the old shop window with the shiny 
glass and the blue-eyed picture, wondered why he 
was so eager about it. 

“Is that the way we came?” she said, “I am 
not sure. I not quite remember.” 

But “him wants to go home that way,” per- 
sisted Baby, and he tugged Lisa along. They 
passed at the other side, but Baby did not mind 
that. He could see across quite plainly, for the 
street was narrow, and there' were still the glasses 
in the corner and the sweet baby-girl face up on 
the wall, looking down on them. 

And after that he was quite satisfied to go 
quietly home; he did not speak much on the 
way, but Lisa was accustomed to his grave fits. 


baby’s secbet. 


141 


and did not pay much attention to them. He 
only asked her one question — just as they were 
getting close to the Villa. 

“Is it to-morrow mother’s going to have all the 
pitty things for dinner?” he said. 

“Yes, Herr Baby, and Lisa will be busy, to 
show Fran9ois how Miladi likes everything. Herr 
Baby and Fraulein Denny will be goot and play 
peacefully in the garden to-morrow, so she can 
be busy,” said Lisa, who was very proud of being 
of so much consequence. 

“Yes,” said Herr Baby, “him won’t want you 
to take care of him.” 

After tea he got out his money-box. This he 
often did. He was such a careful little boy that 
mother let him keep his money himself, and it 
was a great pleasure to him to count over the 
different kinds of “ pennies ; ” he called them all 
“pennies,” brown, white, and even yellow pennies, 
for Baby had a pound and a ten shilling piece 
that had been given him on his last birthday, and 
that he had never been able to make up his mind 
how to spend. He looked at them now with great 
satisfaction. 

“See, Denny,” he said, “him has two yellow 


142 


THE ADVENTURES OE HERR BABY. 


pennies, a big and a little, and free white pennies, 
a big and a little and a littler, and five brown 
pennies. Him knows there’s five, for him can 
count up to five, ’cos five’s just as old as him is 
going to be. See, Denny, isn’t there a lot? And 
the yellow pennies could be turned into lots and 
lots of white pennies Lisa says, and the white 
pennies could be turned into lots of brown pennies, 
isn’t it funny? Isn’t him werry rich, Denny?” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Denny, “I really 
don’t know. I wish you wouldn’t chatter so. 
Baby. I can’t learn my lessons.” 

Poor Baby! It was not often he was to blame 
for “chattering so.” But he looked with great 
respect at Denny for having lessons to do, and 
was not at all offended. Denny was proud of 
being with Celia and the new governess, but I 
think her pleasure was a little spoilt by finding 
that the new governess had no idea of taking care 
of a little girl who didn’t do any lessons, and 
this evening she was rather cross at a row of 
French words which she had to learn to say the 
next morning. Baby went quietly off into the 
corner with his money-box, but finding it rather 
dull to have no one to show his pennies to, he 


baby’s secret. 


143 


went out of the room, which you remember was 
downstairs, and, opening a door which led to the 
kitchen, peeped about in hopes of seeing his 
friend Minet. He had not long to wait — Minet 
had a corner of her own by the kitchen wall, on 
the other side of which was the stove, and where 
she found herself almost as warm as in the 
kitchen, when Monsieur Jean-Georges objected to 
her company. She was curled up in this corner 
when she heard Baby’s soft voice calling her — 
“Minet, Minet, pussy, pussy,” and up she got, 
slowly and lazily, as cats do when they are half 
asleep, but still willingly enough, for she dearly 
loved Herr Baby. 

“Minet,” said Baby, when she appeared, and 
coming up to him rubbed her furry coat against 
his little bare legs, “Minet, dear, come and sit 
wif him on the ’teps going down to the garden, 
and him’ll tell you about his money.” 

But Lisa, coming by just then, said it was too 
cold now to sit on stone steps; for warm as it 
was in the day at Santino the evenings got 
quickly chilly. 

“Us can’t go back to the ’coolroom,” said 
Baby; “Denny won’t let dear Minet come there. 


144 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


and him must stay wif Minet, ’cos her waked up 
when him called her.” 

“Miss Denny must let you stay in the school- 
room,” said Lisa. “There is no little birds there 
for Minet to touch.” 

She opened the door, and Denny was too busy 
with her lessons to scold. 

“You will be very quiet, Herr Baby,” said 
Lisa. So Baby and Minet went off into a corner 
with the money-box. 

“Minet, dear,” said Baby, in a low voice, “see 
what lots of pennies him has. Yellow pennies, 
and white pennies, and brown pennies.” 

Minet purred, naturally, for Baby was stroking 
her softly with one hand all the time he was 
holding up his pennies with the other. 

“Dear Minet,” said Baby, much gratified, “you 
is pleased that him has so many pennies. Now, 
Minet, him will tell you a secret, a gate^ gate 
secret, about what him’s going to do wif all him’s 
pennies.” 

Here Minet purred again. Baby looked round. 
There was no one listening. Lisa was going 
backwards and forwards, putting away the tea- 
things; Denny was still groaning and grumbling 


baby’s secret. 


145 


over her row of words; Baby might safely tell 
Minet his secret. Still he lowered his voice so 
low that certainly no one but Minet could hear. 
And when he left off speaking, Minet purred more 
than ever. Only Baby thought it just as well to 
say to her, before Lisa took him away up to bed, 
“Minet, dear, you’ll be sure not to tell nobody;” 
and I suppose Minet promised, for Baby seemed 
quite pleased. 

He woke in the morning with his head quite 
full of his great idea. They were not to go a 
regular walk that day, Lisa told him, for in the 
afternoon she would be busy, and Herr Baby 
would be good and play quietly in the garden, 
would he not? 

“All alone?” asked Baby. 

“Perhaps Miss Denny will stay, too, if Herr 
Baby wishes,” said Lisa; “she was going again 
with Miss Celia, but — ” 

“Oh no,” said Baby, “him would rather be 
alone, kite alone, ’cept Minet. Fritz is very 
good to him, but Fritz will be at school. Fritz 
is never at home now ’cept Thursdays.” 

“No,” said Lisa; “but Herr Fritz is very happy at 
school, and when Herr Baby is big he will go too.” 


146 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“Yes,” said Baby; but he didn’t seem to think 
much what he was saying. Lisa thought he was 
dull about Fritz being at school — I forgot to tell 
you that Fritz went every day now to a very nice 
school in the town, where there were a few boys 
about his own age — but Lisa was mistaken. 

That afternoon, any one passing the low hedge 
which at one side was all that divided the Villa 
garden from the road, would have seen a pretty 
little picture. There was Baby, seated on the 
grass, one arm fondly clasping Minet’s neck, 
while with the other he firmly held the famous 
money-box. He was dressed in his garden blouse 
only, but for some reason he had his best hat on. 
And he kept looking about him, first towards the 
house and then towards the garden gate, in a 
funny considering sort of way. 

At last he seemed to have made up his mind. 

“Minet,” he said to the cat, “him thinks we’ll 
go now. ’Amember, Minet, you’ve promised to go 
wif him. If you get werry tired, Minet, him’ 11 
try to carry you. If you could carry the money- 
box, and him could carry you, then it would be 
kite easy. What a pity you haven’t got two more 
paws, that would do for hands, Minet!” 


baby’s secret. 


147 


Minet purred. 

“Yes, poor Minet. Nebber mind, dear; but we 
must be going.” And closely followed by the cat, 
who had no idea, poor thing, of what was before 
her. Baby made his way down the path to the 
garden gate. It was open, at least not latched. 
Baby easily pushed it wide enough for his little 
self to go through, and stood, with Minet and the 
money-box, triumphant on the high road. 

“It were the best way, thit way,” he said to 
himself. For there was another gate to the Villa, 
leading out to the upper road. But this gate was 
guarded by a lodge, and the “concierge,” as they 
called the lodge-keeper, came out to open it for 
every one who went in and out. And “p’raps,” 
thought Baby, “the concierge mightn’t have let 
him tlrrough, ’cos, of course, her didn’t know why 
him was going out alone with Minet.” 

So Minet and he and the money-box found 
themselves out on the road on their own account. 

All the family was scattered that afternoon. 
Celia and Denny had gone a long walk with their 
governess, Fritz was at school, mother and auntie 
had driven to see some friends a good way off, 
meaning to call for Fritz at his school on their 


148 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


way home. The servants, too, were all more busy 
than usual on account of the ladies and gentlemen 
coming to dinner. Lisa and Linley and Peters 
were all trying to make the strange servants 
understand just how they were used to have the 
table at home, and giving themselves a great deal 
more trouble than grandfather or mother would 
have wished had they known about it. Lisa was 
very clever at arranging flowers prettily, and she 
was so sure of Baby’s quiet ways when he was 
left to himself, that she never gave a thought to 
him once she saw him safely settled in the garden 
with Minet. It was such a safe garden. There 
really was no part of it where a child could get 
into any trouble, for though there was a little 
water in the basin from which rose the foun- 
tain, it was so little, that not even Minet could 
have wetted much more than her paws in it. 
So Lisa went on quite comfortably doing the 
flowers and arranging the dessert in the pantry, 
by way of giving FranQois a lesson, and now and 
then she would glance out of the window which 
looked on to the garden, and, seeing Baby there 
with Minet, she felt quite easy. She did once 
say to herself. 


baby’s secret. 


149 


“I wonder why Herr Baby begged so to have 
his best hat to-day — but he is one good child, 
one should please him sometimes.” 

I am afraid the truth was that Lisa spoilt her 
dear Baby a little! 

After a while she looked out again. She did 
not see Herr Baby this time, but she did not 
think anything of it. 

“ They will have gone to play among the 
bushes,” she said to herself, meaning by “they” 
Baby and Minet of course, and she went on 
with what she was doing, and got so interested 
in helping Peters to explain to Francois that in 
England people always changed the wine glasses 
at the end of dinner, and put clean ones for 
dessert, that the time went on without it ever 
entering her head to say to herself, “What can 
have become of Herr Baby?” 

Mother and auntie were later than they had 
expected of returning from their drive. They had 
gone a long way, and coming back it was mostly 
up-hill. 

“Fritz will be thinking we have forgotten him,” 
said mother, looking at her watch, “but I told 
him to be sure to wait till we came. He is too 


150 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


little to go home alone yet, at least till he knows 
his way quite well or can speak enough to ask.” 

“We might have told Celia and Denny to call 
for him, as they are out with Mademoiselle,” said 
auntie. 

Just then in turning a corner, for they were 
quite in the town now, auntie’s eyes caught sight 
of the narrow street where the old curiosity shop 
'was. 

“By the bye,” she said, “I should so like to ask 
about that picture. I told you about it, you 
remember. May?” — May, you know, was the chil- 
dren’s mother’s name — “have we time to go that 
way ? ” 

“I’m afraid not; we are late already,” said 
mother. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Oh, never mind, another day will do quite 
well,” said auntie, cheerfully. 

So they drove home, quickly, just stopping a 
moment to pick up Fritz, who was waiting for 
them at the gate of his school. 

If they had happened to go round by the old 
curiosity shop, how surprised they would have 
been; but what a great deal of trouble it would 
have saved them, as you shall hear. 


baby’s secbet. 


151 


.Lisa met them as they got home, with a long 
story about the table and the flowers and the 
stupidness of Frangois, which mother and auntie 
could hardly help laughing at. 

“Never mind, Lisa,” said mother; “it will do 
very well, I am sure. Where are the children?” 

“Upstairs, Miladi, ' taking off their things. 
They have just come in,” said Lisa, never think- 
ing, somehow, as mother said the “children,” but' 
that she was talking of Celia and Denny. For,^ 
somehow, in this family — in every family there 
are little habits of the kind — Baby was not often 
spoken of among “the children.” They had all 
got so used to the name of Herr Baby, which Lisa 
had called him by since he was quite a wee baby, 
that he was seldom spoken of by any other, and often 
Baby himself would talk gravely about “the chil- 
dren,” without any one seeming to think it odd. 

“Upstairs, are they?” said mother. “Well, run 
off, Fritz, dear, and try and get some of your 
lessons done before tea. Mademoiselle will help 
you a little, I dare say, before she goes.” 

Off ran Fritz. He was a very good boy about 
his lessons, and anxious to get on well. More to 
please Lisa and the others than that they cared. 


152 


THE ADVENTUBES OF HERR BABY. 


mother and auntie went into the dining-room. 
They were standing looking at the pretty flowers 
and leaves, when suddenl^^ Fritz put his head in 
at the door again. 

“Lisa,” he said, “where’s Baby? He’s not 
upstairs, and he’s not in the garden. Linley 
said you told him to play there this afternoon, but 
he’s not there.” 

Lisa started, and her face grew white. 

“Mine child!” she cried. “Ah, but he must 
be in the garden. Master Fritz! I saw him there 
so happy, with the cat, just — ah, how long ago 
was it? Have I forgotten him for so long? He 
must be hiding — to play, to — how do you say?” 
for Lisa’s English was very apt to fly away when 
she got frightened or upset. “Ach, where can he 
be?” and off darted poor Lisa. 

Mother and auntie and Fritz looked at each other. 

“Can he be lost?'*'* said Fritz, with a very 
frightened face. 

“Oh no, no,” said auntie. “Lisa is so easily 
startled. But still — ” 

“Let us all go and look for him at once,” said 
mother. “ What a good thing poor grandfather 
isn’t back yet!” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


FOUND. 

— “he was not there : 

We searched the house, the grounds — in vain ; 

We searched the green in our despair, 

And then we searched the house again.” 

It tvas a good thing grandfather was out, for — 
and this was what mother was thinking of — poor 
grandfather, though he looked such a fine, tall, 
gray-haired old gentleman, was not really very 
strong or well. It was a great deal for him that 
they had all come abroad this winter, and the 
doctors had told mother and auntie that anything 
to startle or distress him might make him very ill 
indeed. Poor grandfather! I can’t tell you what 
a kind, good man he was. He had stayed a great 
many years in India, though he would have liked 
dreadfully to come home, because it was “his 
duty” he said, and this had made him seem older 
than he really was, for a hot country is very 
wearing out to people who are not born to it. 

153 


154 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


And, though he was so fond of his grandchildren, 
I think if he had a pet among them, it was little 
Herr Baby. The mere idea of his tiny Ka3rmond 

— Baby was named Raymond after grandfather — 
being lost, even for an hour or two, would have 
troubled him dreadfully, and thinking of this, 
auntie, too, repeated after mother, 

“Yes, indeed, what a good thing grandfather 
isn’t in. We mustn't let him know. May, till 
Baby’s found.” 

They didn’t stay to say anything more. Off 
they all set into the garden, for, though Fritz said 
he had looked all over, they couldn’t feel sure that 
they might not find Baby in some corner, hiding, 
perhaps, for fun, even. But when they had all 
been round and round the garden in every direction 

— mother, and auntie, and Celia, and Denny, and 
Fritz, and Mademoiselle Lucie, and Lisa, and 
Linley, and Peters, and Francois, and, even at 
the end I believe. Monsieur Jean-Georges himself, 
and the rest of the French servants — when they 
had all looked, and peeped, and shouted, and 
whistled, and begged, and prayed Baby to come 
out if he was hiding, and there was no answer, 
then they gave it up. It was impossible that the 
little man could be in the garden. 


FOUND. 


155 


Where could he be? 

Fortunately there was nowhere in the garden 
where he could have hurt himself — no pit or 
pond into which he could have fallen. And it 
was surely impossible that any one could have 
come into the garden and stolen him away, as 
Celia, with a pale face, whispered to auntie. 
Where could he be, and what should they do? 

Time was passing — the friends who were com- 
ing to dinner would be at the villa before long; 
grandfather was %ure to appear in a few minutes. 
What could they do? 

“We must not tell grandfather, that is certain,” 
said auntie. “May, dear, it is very hard on you, 
I know, but Fll tell you how it must be. You 
must stay here quietly and be ready for the friends 
who are coming, and I will go off at once and do 
all, everything I can think of. Mademoiselle 
Lucie, you know the town, and you can tell me 
all about the police, and where to go to in case we 
don’t find our darling at once, though I quite 
think we shall. I can’t take you, Peters,” for 
Peters was eagerly coming forward, “Sir Raymond 
would miss you, nor you, Lisa, for you must take 
care of the other children,” at which Lisa all but 


156 


THE ADVEis^TURES OF HERR BABY. 


broke out crying: “It was too good of Mademoi- 
selle Helene to trust her; she didn’t deserve it.” 
“And Frangois would be no good. You and I, 
Mademoiselle Lucie, will go at once. And you 
must tell grandfather that I was obliged to go 
out, for an hour or two, unexpectedly.” 

“I am afraid he will think it very strange,” 
said mother, “but I will do my best.” 

Mother spoke quietly, but her face was very 
white. 

“Do go, Nelly,” she said, “as quick as you 
can.” 

And Celia and Denny, who had been thinking 
of bursting into tears, took example by her and 
auntie, and tried to look cheerful. 

“Auntie,” said Celia, running after her to the 
gate, “I’ll be very good and try to comfort mother. 
And we’ll not let grandfather think there’s any- 
thing wrong. But oh, auntie dear, I hope you’ll 
soon bring dear Baby safe home.” 

“So do I, darling,” said auntie, stooping to kiss 
her, even though she was so hurried, and, for the 
first time, there was a little quiver in her voice, 
and Celia ran back to the others, thinking even 
more than before how good and brave auntie was. 


FOUND. 


157 


They hastened down the road, auntie and little 
Mademoiselle Lucie, I mean. But when they had 
gone some little way, auntie stopped short. 

“He may have gone by the other road, and we 
may miss him that way;” for, without thinking, 
auntie had hurried out by the little gate opening 
on to the lower road. 

“I think not,” said Mademoiselle Lucie, “at 
least the concierge would have been sure to see 
him, and we did ask her, and she had not seen 
him at all.” 

“To be sure,” said auntie, “I forgot about the 
concierge.” 

“Besides,” Mademoiselle Lucie continued, “to 
get to the town he must pass the way we are 
going, a little farther on where the two roads run 
together.” 

“To be sure,” said auntie, again. 

“It is to the town we are going?” asked 
Mademoiselle Lucie. 

“Yes,” said auntie, “I have an idea, but I did 
not like to say it to my sister for fear it should 
lead to nothing. There is a shop in the town 
where there is a picture that Baby took a great 
fancy to the other day. At least it was I that 


158 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


noticed it first, and he was so pleased with it. 
There was something else in the shop that he was 
looking at — I don’t remember what — when we 
noticed the picture.” 

“ Do you know where the shop is ? Can we 
easily find it?” 

“I think so; yes, I am sure I can find it,” said 
auntie. “It is a shop of curiosities, a shop at a 
corner, the street is narrow.” 

“I know it,” said Mademoiselle Lucie, “though 
it is not very well knoAvn. There are grander 
shops of curiosities which are more visited, but I 
know that shop, as I often pass it.” 

She told auntie the name of the owner of the 
shop, and of the street, and then auntie fixed, as 
they were now near the town, that she would go 
on alone to the shop, while Mademoiselle Lucie 
went to her brother, Avho, she hoped, would be at 
home at this hour, and get him to go with her to 
the police office, so that no time should be lost. 

Auntie hurried on by herself, but though she 
went so fast that the easy-going peasants driving 
their sleepy bullocks, whom she met, looked after 
her in surprise, she did not, for one moment, leave 
off looking about her on every side, to see if by 


FOUND. 


159 


any chance she could discover the well-known 
little figure it would have given her such joy to 
see. But no. Once or twice a child in the dis- 
tance made her heart beat a little quicker, but, as 
soon as she got near enough to see it clearly, her 
hopes sank again. There were very few houses 
on the country road leading from the villa till 
one was quite in the town. So auntie thought it 
not worth while to ask, for, in a street of houses 
and shops standing close together, and people con- 
stantly passing, it was much less likely that any 
one would have noticed a little tot like Herr Baby, 
making his way. 

“No,” said auntie to herself, “it is no use stop- 
ping to ask. The best thing I can do is to find 
the shop at once, and if they can tell me nothing 
there, to follow Mademoiselle Lucie to the police 
office.” 

And, with a deep sigh, for, somehow, every step 
she took farther without seeing anything of the 
little truant, made auntie’s heart feel heavier — 
she hurried on again. 

She soon found the wide street — the street with 
the dressmakers’ and milliners’ shops, which Fritz 
had not cared to look at — then she turned one 


160 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


corner and went on a little farther, then another, 
and — yes, there was the little old shop, looking 
just the same as the day they had all stood there 
so happily. Auntie had been walking very 
quickly, almost running, but when she saw the 
shop just before her she stood still — she felt so 
anxious — what should she do if she could hear 
nothing of Baby? 

When she got to the door she stopped and 
looked in; there seemed to be no one in the shop. 
Auntie glanced up to the side of the door where 
the little portrait had hung. It was gone! Could 
that have anything to do with Baby? auntie asked 
herself in a sort of puzzled way. Could Baby 
have thought of buying it? how much money had 
he? But it was stupid and foolish to stand there 
puzzling and wondering, instead of boldly going 
in to ask. Auntie took her courage in her two 
hands, as the saying is, and went in. 

No one there; where could the owner of the 
shop be? The last time he had come forward at 
once when they were only looking in — a little 
dried-up old man, just the sort of person one 
would expect to find in such a shop, sitting in a 
dark corner like an old spider, watching to see 


FOUND. 


161 


what flies were passing his way. Auntie went 
right in without seeing any one, but she heard 
voices not far off, and, in her anxiety, she went 
forward to a door slightly open, leading into 
rooms behind the shop. She knocked — bilt for a 
moment no one took any notice. They were talk- 
ing so eagerly inside that she had to knock again, 
and in the moment or two that had passed with- 
out them hearing her, she heard one or two words 
that made her eager to hear more. 

“No, no,” some one was saying, “much better 
go at once to the offlce. We may get into 
trouble.” 

“He seems so sensible,” said another voice. “J 
say, better go with him and carry the things, and 
we shall soon see if he knows his way, and — ” 

Auntie could not wait any more. She pushed 
open the door and went in. There was, however, 
no Herr Baby to be seen, as she had almost 
expected there would be. There was the old 
man that she remembered having seen before, look- 
ing like a very startled spider this time, as he 
raised his two shrivelled old arms in surprise at 
her appearance, and beside him was a very pleas- 
ant, bright-faced, young woman, with a baby in 


162 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


her arms, talking, or at least looking as if she 
had just been talking very eagerly. 

“Is he here?” said auntie, quite breathless, “my 
little boy, my little nephew, I mean. Is Baby 
here?” 

The young woman looked at the old man with 
a sort of little nod of triumph. 

“You see,” she said quickly, “I said there was 
no need to frighten the poor darling by taking 
him to the police office. Yes, Madame,” she 
went on, turning to auntie, “the dear bebe is here 
— that is to say, he cannot but be the one you are 
looking for. I sent him out into the little garden 
with his cat and my little girl, while my grand- 
father and I talked about what to do. I would 
have sent him home, I mean we would have tried 
to find his home, if my husband had been here, 
but he is away.” 

“And I am too feeble, Madame, as you see, to 
walk far,” said the old man, who seemed now anx- 
ious to be very amiable. 

“But you talked of taking him to the police 
office,” said the young woman, in a low voice, 
“the idea! to frighten a bebe like that.” 

“Hush, hush,” said the old man, “all was to 


FOUND. 


163 


be done for the best. You shall see him, your 
dear child, Madame,” he went on, bustling about. 

“But tell me first — a moment — ” said auntie, 
“What did he come for? Did he buy the 
picture ? ” 

“The picture,” repeated the old man, “no, surely. 
It was the glass jugs, the little gentleman wanted, 
and he had his money all right — I took but the just 
price, Madame — I would not deceive any one.” 

“They are very dear to my mind,” said the 
young woman, “ but there — I know nothing about 
old things. This is not our shop, Madame — I 
look in in passing, to see the grandfather some- 
times, that is all.” 

“And Baby came to buy some jugs^ you say,” 
repeated auntie. There Was a confused remem- 
brance in her mind of something Baby had said 
about jugs, something he had asked her to look 
at the day they had stood at the shop window, 
but which she had since forgotten. Her only idea 
in coming to the little old shop had been the pict- 
ure. “ You said he came to buy some jugs ? ” she 
said again. 

“Yes, Madame,” said the old man, “two glass 
jugs — V ene tian glass . ’ ’ 


164 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


“Ah!” said auntie, and then she remembered it 
all — about the glass jugs that Baby had broken 
at home, and what he had said to her about those 
in the shop window being like them. “And the 
picture?” she said, “is it no longer there? But 
first, let me have my little boy. He is in the 
garden, you say?” 

She looked round, for there was no sign of 
a garden. The window of the little room in 
which they were, looked out only on to a blank 
wall. 

“This way, Madame,” said the young woman, 
opening a door at the side. It led into a little 
dark passage, and, at the end of it, there was 
another door, standing open, and through this door 
came the sound of children’s voices. 

Auntie stood still a moment to listen — the first 
words made her smile. 

“Him wants to go home now,” said the well- 
known voice. “Little girl, why ^von't you listen? 
Him wants to go home, and so does Minet. 
Doesn’t you hear?” 

The little girl must have been very much 
puzzled, for auntie heard her trying her best, in 
her baby talk, to make this queer little stranger 



Auntie stood still a Moment to listen, p. 164. 





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FOUND. 


165 


understand that they were to stay out in the 
garden till her mother called them in. 

“Him wants to go home^ and so does Minet,” 
repeated poor Baby, and his voice began to quiver 
and shake, as if he were going to cry. Auntie 
could stand it no longer. She hurried out into 
the little garden. 

“You shall go home now. Baby dear,” she said. 
“Auntie has come to fetch you.” 

Baby looked up eagerly at the sound of a well- 
known voice. He ran to her and held up his little 
face for a kiss. He looked very pleased, but not at 
all surprised. It was one of Herr Baby’s funny 
ways, that he almost never seemed surprised. 

“Him is so glad you’s come,” he said. “You’ll 
help him to carry home the shiny jugs, for Minet’s 
raver tired, and him might have to carry her and 
the money-box. But you won’t tell mother about 
the jugs, will you? You’ll let him run in wif 
them him’s self, won’t you, auntie? WonH mother 
be pleased?” 

“But you must tell me all about it, dear,” said 
auntie; “did you come off all alone to get the 
glasses? Why didn’t you ask some one to come 
with you?” 


166 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERE BABY. 


Baby looked a little troubled. 

“Him didn’t come alone^'' he said. “Him told 
Minet, and Minet corned too, only her’s werry 
tired. And it were for the party, auntie,” he 
added, looking up wistfully, “ Lisa said mother 
had no pitty jugs for her’s party. And oh, 
auntie, p’ease do be kick, ’fear we shall be too 
late.” 

Auntie took his hand and led him back into 
the shop, where the old man was wrapping up the 
jugs with a great show of soft paper, that auntie 
should see how careful he was. 

“Has my little boy paid you?” she asked. 

“Oh yes,” said Herr Baby, understanding, 
though she did not speak English. “ See in 
him’s money-box ; ” he held out the money-box 
with some difficulty, for, having Minet under the 
other arm, it was not easy for him to get his 
hands free; “him had two yellow pennies, one big 
and one little, him gived the big one for the 
shiny jugs.” 

“Was that the price of the jugs?” auntie asked 
the man. 

“No, Madame, I have the change to give the 
little gentleman. See here,” and he held out two 


FOUND. 


167 


large silver coins, the size of crowns, which auntie 
took. 

“I don’t think the jugs are dear,” she said, 
with a smile, turning to the young woman, who 
looked pleased. “And some day,” she went on, 
“we will come to see you, and bring you some 
little thing for your little girl, as you have been 
so kind to my little boy. Come now. Baby dear, 
we must get home as quick as we can.” 

“But the little girl, the pitty little girl,” said 
Herr Baby, “him must say good-bye to Aer.” 

“There she is beside you,” said auntie, think- 
ing, of course, that he meant the young woman’s 
little girl, “say good-bye to her.” 

“No, no,” said Baby, “him doesn’t mean her. 
Him means the pitcher little girl, Aer,” he went 
on, pointing to the young woman, “her gottened 
her down for him to see, ’cos him were trying to 
reach up to kiss her.” 

That was why the picture was no longer in the 
window then ? Where was it ? Auntie turned 
round as she felt Baby pulling her. 

“Her’s there,” he said, pointing to a chair on 
which the picture had been set down hurriedly 
with the face the other way. Auntie turned it 


168 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERE BABY. 


round. Dear little face! It smiled at her again 
with the pretty half wistful, half wise expression, 
which had so taken her fancy. Now it seemed 
to her to be saying — 

“I am so glad you have found him. I knew 
where he was. I am so glad to have helped you 
to find him;,” and when Baby lifted his little face 
to kiss, with his rosy living lips, the picture of 
the child, who had once been living and loving 
like him, I can hardly tell you the strange feeling 
that went through auntie’s heart. 

“She must have been a dear good little girl, 
whoever she was,” she thought to herself. “It 
would be nice to leave a sweet feeling behind 
one in the Avorld long after one is dead, such as 
that little face gives. I should like to have that 
picture. I must see about it.” 

But to-day there was no time to be wasted. 

Auntie took Baby by the hand, persuading him 
to let her carry the precious jugs, as Minet and 
the money-box were already more than enough 
for him. And, even with her help, it was not so 
easy to manage at all, and auntie was very glad 
to meet Mademoiselle Lucie a little way down the 
street, and get her to carry part. 


FOUND. 


169 


Mademoiselle Lucie was delighted, as you can 
fancy, to see Herr Baby again. She had been 
coming back in great trouble to look for auntie; 
for very unluckily, as she thought, she had found 
that her brother was out, and she had not there- 
fore gone to the police office. 

“A very good thing, after all,” said auntie: “it 
would only have been giving trouble for nothing, 
as we have found him.” 

But she said to Mademoiselle Lucie, in a low 
voice, to say nothing about the police before Herr 
Baby, as it might frighten him. 

“Would it not, perhaps, be a good thing to 
frighten him a little?” said Mademoiselle Lucie; 
“he would not run off again.” 

Auntie shook her head. 

“Not in that way,” she said. “We will make 
him understand how he has frightened us. That 
will be the best way.” 

“How did he mean to get home alone, I won- 
der,” said Mademoiselle Lucie; “how could he 
have carried all he had, and Minet too?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said auntie. “How 
did you mean to carry everything home. Baby 
dear?” 


170 


THE ADVENTUEES OF HERR BABY. 


Baby looked puzzled. 

“Him doesn’t know,” he said. “P’raps him 
thought Minet would carry some,” he added, with 
a smile. 

Auntie smiled too. Mademoiselle Lucie looked 
up for auntie to explain to her, for she did not 
understand Baby’s talk any better than he did 
hers. 

Suddenly another idea struck auntie. 

“How did you manage to tell the old man in 
the shop what you wanted to buy?” she said. 

Baby considered. 

“Him sawed the pitty little girl,” he said; 
“her was looking at the shiny glasses — always — 
her was keeping them for him. Him asked her 
to. Then him touched them; him climbed up on 
a chair in the shop and touched them, and then 
him showed all him’s pennies to the old man; 
but the lady wif the baby knowed the best what 
him wanted. Her were very nice, but the pitty 
little girl were the goodest, weren’t her?” 

Auntie listened quietly, for Baby spoke quite 
gravely. 

“It would be nice to have that pretty picture, 
wouldn’t it. Baby?” 


FOUND. 


171 


“Yes,” said Baby; but he didn’t look quite 
pleased. “Auntie,” he said, “him doesn’t like 
you to call her a pitcher. Him thinks her’s a 
zeal little girl, a zeal fairy little girl. Her 
tookened care of the shiny glasses so nice for 
him, didn’t her?” 

And auntie smiled again. 


CHAPTER IX. 


“east or west, hame is best.” 

‘ ‘ But home is home wherever it is, 

When we’re all together, and nothing amiss.” 

Irish Ballad. 

By this time, of course, it was quite dark. It 
had been quite light when auntie and Mademoi- 
selle Lucie set off, but at Santino the darkness 
comes on very quickly. Poor Baby, he would have 
been in trouble if auntie had not come to look 
for him — that is to say if the old man and the 
young woman had allowed him to set off on his 
journey home alone. I don’t think he would ever 
have got there, for in the dark he could not have 
found his way, and he certainly could never have 
got the shiny jugs and Minet and the money-box 
all home in safety! 

The ladies and gentlemen who were coming to 
dine at the Villa had all arrived. Mother was 
sitting in the drawing-room talking to them, and 
trying her best to look as if there was nothing 


172 


“ EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.” 173 

the matter, to prevent grandfather finding out 
that there was. Poor mother, it was not very 
easy for her, was it? Grandfather was a good 
deal put out, as it was, at auntie’s being so late. 
He, too, tried not to look cross, poor old gentle- 
man, but any one who knew him at all well could 
not help seeing as he moved about the room, 
sometimes giving a poke to the wood fire which 
was burning quite brightly as it was, sometimes 
sharply pulling open one of the window-shutters 
and looking out, as if he could see anything with 
the light inside and the dark out of doors ! — any 
one could see that he wa% very much put out. 
He sat down now and then for a minute or two 
and spoke very politely — for grandfather was a 
very polite old gentleman — to one or other of the 
stranger ladies, but even to them he could not 
help showing what was in his mind. 

It is very strange, really most exceedingly 
strange, of my eldest daughter,” he said, “not to 
be in before this. I really feel quite ashamed of 
it, my dear Madam.” 

“But you are not uneasy, I hope,” said the 
lady, kindly. “There cannot be anything the 
matter with Miss Leonard?” (“Miss Leonard ’ 


174 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


was what Fritz called auntie’s “stuck-up name,” 
and “Lady Aylmer” was mother’s.) “You don’t 
feel uneasy about her?” 

(This lady did not know there tvas anything 
the matter, for she was quite at the other end of 
the room from mother. Mother had whispered to 
the lady beside her, who was an old and dear 
friend, how frightened she was about Herr Baby, 
and the old lady, who was very kind and nice, 
was talking and smiling as much as she could to 
help poor mother.) 

“Uneasy,” said grandfather, rather sharply, and 
not quite so politely as he generally spoke, “oh 
no, of course I’m not uneasy. My daughter 
Helen can take care of herself. I am only very 
much surprised at her doing such an extraordinary 
thing as forgetting the hour like this.” 

But in his heart I fancy what the lady said 
did make grandfather begin to think there might 
be something to be uneasy about, and this made 
liim still crosser. She was not such a sensible 
lady as old Mrs. Bryan in the arm-chair opposite, 
who chattered the more the more she saw grand- 
father’s worried look grow worse, and the pain 
grew plainer on poor mother’s white face. 


“EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.” 175 

“May,” he called out at last, “I think it is 
nonsense waiting dinner any longer. Tell one of 
the children to ring and order it up at once. 
Why, they’re not here! Why are none of the 
children down. May? Everything seems at sixes 
and sevens.” 

“We are not waiting for Nelly, father dear,” 
said mother. “I don’t know why dinner isn’t 
ready yet, but I think it can’t be long. I will 
hurry them,” and she got up to ring herself. 

“But the children — why aren’t they down?” 
said grandfather again. 

Mother hesitated — 

“It is rather late for them,” she said. “The 
girls have been a long walk and are tired.” 

She did not know what to say, poor thing. She 
had not dared to let the three children come into 
the drawing-room, for fear their white faces and 
red eyes should make grandfather find out that 
there was something wrong, and indeed neither 
Celia, nor Denny, nor Fritz, would have been able 
to stay still in the room for five minutes. They 
were peeping out of the nursery every few 
seconds, running along to the end of the balcony, 
and straining their eyes and ears in trying to see 


176 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


or hear anything coming in the shape of good 
news. 

Long, long afterwards they used to speak in the 
nursery, with deep breaths, of “that terrible even- 
ing when Herr Baby was lost.” 

But it was, of course, the worst for poor 
mother. It was bad enough in the nursery, where 
the tea, that nobody had cared to touch, was set 
out as neatly as usual on the table; the chairs 
drawn round, the one that Baby always had with 
a footstool on it — to make up for there being no 
high chair at the Villa — in its place, though the 
well-known, funny little figure was not perched 
on it. And Lisa, with a face swollen so that no 
one would have known her, fussing away to have 
the kettle boiling, so that her darling should have 
some hot tea as soon as ever he came in — for she 
wouldn’t allow but that he would soon come in, 
though sad little stories kept running through 
Celia’s and Denny’s heads about children that had 
been lost and never found, or found when it was 
no longer they themselves but only their poor 
little bodies, drowned, perhaps, or “choked in the 
snow,” as Denny said. And she got rather cross 
when Celia reminded her that there was no snow, 
so it couldn’t be that^ anyway. 


177 


“EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.” 

All this was bad enough, but still they were 
free to talk about their fears, and to cry if they 
felt inclined, and to keep running to the window 
or the door. But for poor mother, as you can 
fancy, it was much worse. There she had to sit 
smiling and talking as if everything were quite 
nice and comfortable, not only for the sake of the 
friends who had come to dine with them, but still 
more for poor grandfather’s sake, who kept grow- 
ing more and more fidgety and put out, and at 
the bottom of his heart, though he would not own 
it even to himself, really frightened and anxious. 

At last his patience was exhausted. 

“May,” he said, speaking across the fireplace to 
mother. She was talking to the lady beside her, 
and did not at first hear him. “A/ay,” said grand- 
father again, and if the children had been in the 
room I think his voice would have made them 
jump, “it is using our friends very badly to keep 
them waiting so long for dinner. Be so good as 
to ring again and tell the servants we will not 
wait any longer.” 

Poor mother — she looked up — it was all she 
could do not to burst into tears! 


“Yes,” she said, “I will tell them.” 


178 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


She was half rising from her seat, whispering to 
the lady beside her (the lady who did know all 
about it), “I don’t know how I shall get through 
dinner,” when — what was it? — no bell had rung, 
there was no sound that any one else heard, what 
could it have been that mother heard? I don’t 
know what it was, and I dare say mother herself 
could not have told, but something she did hear. 
For she stopped short, and a sort of eager look 
came into her eyes and a flush into her cheeks. 
And then the other people in the room seemed to 
catch the infection, and everybody else looked up 
to see what was coming, and in the silence a sort 
of fumbling was heard at the door. It only lasted 
a second or two, then somehow the handle turned, 
much more quickly than was usually the case 
when it was Baby’s small hands that were stretch- 
ing up to reach it — I rather think some one must 
have been behind to help him — the door opened 
and — oh such a funny little figure came in! You 
know who it was of course, but it would be very 
difficult to tell you exactly what he looked like. 
He was dressed just as he had been for playing 
in the garden — a little short thick jacket over 
his holland blouse, which was no longer very 


f 




Forgetting all about Everything, except that her Baby avas 
FOUND, UP JUMPED MOTHER. — p. 179. 





“EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.” 179 

clean; his short scarlet socks and oldest hoots on 
his legs, the bare part of which looked very red 
and cold, and what had been his best straw hat 
with part of the brim dangling down, on his 
curly head. But he seemed quite pleased with 
himself — that was another of Herr Baby’s “ways 
he always did seem quite pleased with himself, 
best of all, I think, when he had his oldest clothes 
on — he trotted into the room just as he would 
have trotted into the garden, even though there 
were a good man}" rather finely-dressed ladies and 
gentlemen sitting round — for his whole mind was 
filled with the thoughts of two big paper parcels 
which he carried in his arms. They could not 
have been as heavy as they were big, or else he 
could not possibly have carried them! And close 
at his heels, making him look still funnier, came 
Minet, very pleased, I am sure, to find herself 
again in sight of a fire. 

Herr Baby looked round him for a moment, 
only for a moment, for though the lights in the 
room and the number of people dazzled and puzzled 
him a little, he did not need to look round for 
which was mother. Forgetting all about every- 
thing, except that her baby was found, up jumped 


180 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


mother, a rosy flush coming over her face which 
had looked so white and sad, pretty mother with 
her silvery silky dress and her sweet eyes filled 
with tears, and rushing over to Baby caught him 
up in her arms, poor little cold, tired, red-legged 
Herr Baby, and for a minute or so, greatly to 
grandfather’s surprise, she hid her face somehow 
among the wee man’s curls without speaking. 

Grandfather was surprised but not alarmed, for 
just behind in the open doorway stood auntie, 
who came quietly forward and explained to him 
that Baby had gone out on his own account and 
they had been afraid of his losing his way, that 
was what had kept her out so late, and she was 
so sorry. Auntie had such a nice clear simple 
way of speaking, grandfather’s vexation seemed 
to melt away as he listened. He glanced at the 
little figure still clasped in mother’s arms, and a 
queer look came into his eyes. 

“Poor children!” he said, “poor children! May, 
you should have told me.” 

But he knew why they hadn’t told him. The 
ladies and gentlemen came round auntie to hear 
what she was saying. They were all very kind 
and very sorry and very glad. But it was diffi- 


“EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.’’ 181 

cult not to smile when a little voice was heard 
saying, 

“Mother, p’ease put him down. Him’s got 
somesing so pitty, but him’s afraid of breaking 
them.” 

And sliding down to the ground, he managed 
somehow to set the two parcels safely on the floor, 
and began undoing them. The}’ all watched him, 
but he didn’t care, and he would let nobody help 
him. He got one out at last, and held it up 
with a beautiful happiness in his little face. 

“See, mother!” he cried, “shiny jugs! Him’s 
got them all himself wif him’s own pennies. 
Two! Them’s for you, mother, ’cos him boked 
you’s ’nother ones. Him founded them himself 
in a shop. Him’s been as quick as him could, 
’cos of mother’s party, to make the table pitty.” 

“My darling,” said mother, hugging him again, 
and when she looked up half smiling, half crying, 
and tried to say to the ladies and gentlemen that 
she hoped they would not think her silly, there 
were tears in some other eyes besides in hers. 

But Herr Baby was quite himself. 

“You is p’eased,” he said contentedly. “Then, 
him’ 11 go to tea, for him’s raver hungry. But 


182 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


p’ease put the shiny jugs on the table to make it 
pitty.” 

He held up his face for another kiss. Then 
grandfather came forward and in his turn lifted 
the little truant into his arms. 

“He is tired, the poor little man,” he said, 
looking round: “you are so kind; I should ask 
you to forgive our want of politeness, but I am 
sure you will. I will he back in a moment.” 

And it was grandfather himself who carried off 
Herr Baby and gave him over to Lisa, weeping 
for joy now, as she caught her darling in her 
arms. 

There was a happy tea in the nursery that night 
after all. Baby was very tired, but so exceedingly 
pleased with himself that his face grew rosy and 
his eyes bright, as if he had only just wakened 
up in the morning, as he sat at the table answer- 
ing all the questions of Celia and Denny and 
Fritz and Lisa about his adventures. How had 
he found his way? How had he made the old 
man understand what he wanted? Hadn’t he been 
frightened? Had he been pleased to see auntie? 
Had he carried Minet all the way? Oh, there 
were more questions than I could tell you — almost 


“ EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.” 183 

more than Herr Baby could answer; and Minet, 
too, came in for a share of the petting. 

When they had got most of their questions 
answered, they all found out they were very 
hungry, and they set to work at their tea, and for 
a while there was silence in the nursery. Sud- 
denly Baby leant his two elbows on the table and 
looked round. 

“It were all the pitty little girl that keeped 
the shiny glasses for him. Her are so pitty.” 

“What little girl?” said the children, all 
together. “ Do you mean the young woman’s 
little girl in the shop?” 

“No,” said Herr Baby, “not that kind of little 
girl. Him means a little girl up on the wall — 
a pitcher girl; but him thinks her are a fairy ^ 

And having thus given his opinion. Baby looked 
round again with great satisfaction, and Celia and 
Denny whispered to each other that really Baby 
sometimes said very funny things for such a little 
boy! 

They were all dressed as usual, and Denny and 
Baby went in to dessert, while Celia and Fritz 
waited, as became such hig young people, in the 
drawing-room. Everybody was very kind to the 


184 


THE ADVENTUKES OF HERR BABY. 


children, and Baby, had he been any one else hut 
Herr Baby, would have been spoilt by all the 
petting the ladies wanted to give him. But his 
eyes were fixed on one thing, or rather on two 
things, on the table, one in front of mother at one 
end, one in front of grandfather at the other, 
there they stood, two queerly-shaped glass jugs, 
sparkling and shining with many colours like a 
rainbow, filled with the brightest and clearest 
water which might have been drawn at a fairy 
well. And what pleasure shone in Baby’s face 
as he looked at them. 

“You is p’eased?” he said again to mother, as 
he bade her good-night. 

It was a little difficult for mother to have to 
make “him” understand that much as she loved 
him for remembering how sorry she had been to 
have the first jugs broken, and how sweet she 
thought it of him to have got her new ones, 
that still he must never again think of doing 
such things by himself and without telling or 
asking any one. 

She did not say anything to him that night; 
she could not bear to spoil his pretty pleasure, 
but the next day she made him understand; and 


“ EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.” 185 

Baby “p’omised” he would never again set off on 
his own account, or settle any plan without asking 
mother or auntie, or perhaps Celia, about it. 

And so the end of the story of the broken jugs 
was quite a happy one. 

**^**^^*^ 

Herr Baby’s birthday came in the late spring. 
They were all back in England by then. The old 
garden was no longer “lonely,” for the children’s 
voices were heard all over it, and the sunlight 
through the leaves flickered on to their curly 
heads as they ran about in delight, seeking for 
all their old favourite corners. The “labbits” 
were well and happy; Jones and Thomas had come 
to meet them at the railway station with broad 
smiles on their honest faces; all the house looked 
bright and smiling, too, it had been so well 
rubbed up to receive them — altogether Herr Baby 
thought “ coming back ” was a very nice and 
happy thing, though he had enjoyed himself so 
much at Santino that he told Lisa he didn’t think 
he would much mind if they did go there again 
next winter, when it began to get cold at home, as 
was already spoken of, as Santino had done grand- 
father so much good this time. 


186 


THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY. 


So, as I was saying, it was a very happy little 
man, indeed, that woke up in his “own dear little 
bed,” — which, wonderful to say, had not grown 
too small for him all the months they had been 
away, — on the morning of Herr Baby’s fifth birth- 
day. He could hardly stand still to be dressed, 
so eager was he to run off to mother’s room to 
get her birthday kiss, and to see the presents 
which he knew would not have been forgotten. 
They turned out even prettier than he had 
expected ; indeed, it would take me too long were I 
to tell you all about the beautiful box of bricks, 
big enough to build real houses almost. Baby 
thought, from grandfather, and the lovely pair of 
toy horses with real hair, in a stable, from mother, 
and the coachman’s whip to crack at them from 
Fritz, and the pair of slippers Celia and Denny 
had worked for him, one foot each, and the birth- 
day cake all snowed over with sugar, and with 
his name on in pink, from grandfather and mother 
together, “’asides their other presents.” It quite 
took Herr Baby’s breath away to think all these 
lovely things were for him; he sat at the nursery 
table quite unable to eat his breakfast, something 
like Fritz the morning they were starting on their 


187 


“ EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.” 

journey, do you remember? till Lisa persuaded 
him to eat, by telling him if he didn’t, he would 
be so tired that he wouldn’t enjoy his birthday at 
all, which made him set to work at his bread and 
milk. Lisa, too, had remembered the day, for she 
had made him the prettiest little penny purse you 
ever saw, knitted in bright -coloured silk, so that 
now he was very well off, indeed, with his 
“scented” purse for his gold ^nd silver, and Lisa’s 
one for pennies and halfpennies, and his money- 
box to store up the rest in when the purses were 
full. He had all his presents set out in a row, so 
that he could see them while he was eating, and 
just when he was at nearly the last spoonful, he 
was quite startled by a voice beside him, saying, 
“And what about my present. Baby dear? Did 
you think I had forgotten your birthday?” 

It was auntie. She had come in so quietly that 
Herr Baby had not heard her. She leant over 
his chair, and he put his arms round her neck 
and kissed her. 

“Him is so happy, auntie dear,” he said; “him 
has such lots of p’esents, him never thought about 
your p’esent.” 

“ Didn’t you, dear ? ” said auntie, smiling. 


4 


188 THE ADVENTURES OP HERR BABY. 

“Well, I didn’t forget it — indeed, I thought of 
it a long time ago, as you will see. Come with 
me, for I see you have finished your breakfast.” 

Auntie took him by the hand. Baby wondered 
where she was going to, and he was rather sur- 
prised when she led him to his own room — that is 
to say, to the pretty nursery where he and Denny 
had their two little white beds side by side. 

“Look up. Baby,” said auntie. 

And looking up, what do you think he saw? 
On the wall, at the side of his own little bed, 
where his eyes could see it the first thing in the 
morning, and the last at night, hung the picture 
of the blue-eyed little girl, the dear little girl of 
long ago, with her sweet rosy face, and queer old- 
fashioned white frock, smiling down at him, with 
the sort of wise, loving look, just as she had 
smiled down at him in the old shop at Santino. 

“ Oh, auntie, auntie ! ” cried Baby. But then he 
seemed as if he could say no more. He just stared 
up at the sweet little face, clasping his hands, as 
if he was too pleased to speak. Then, at last, he 
turned to auntie and hugged her. 

“Oh, auntie!” he said again. “Oh, him is so 
p’eased to have him’s own pitty little girl always 


EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST.'’ 189 

smiling at him. Him will always have her, won't 
him, auntie?’’ 

“I hope so, dear. She is your very own.” 

“Him will keep her till him is kite old. Him 
will show her to him’s children and him’s g’an- 
children, won’t him?” went on Baby solemnly. 

“I hope so, dear,” said auntie again, smiling at 
his flushed little face. 

“Her is so pitty,” said Baby. “Her is as 
sweet as a fairy. Auntie, him would so like to 
hear all the story about her. Couldn’t you find 
it out, auntie?” 

“Perhaps,” said auntie, “or, what would be 
still better, perhaps the little girl will whisper it 
to you some night when you are asleep.” 

“That would be nice,” said Baby. Then 
another thought struck him. “Auntie,” he said, 
“will you ask mother to let him bring up the 
shiny jugs to show them to the pitty little girl? 
Her would like to see them so nice, and not 
brokened at all wif the packing. Oh, auntie, what 
a bootiful birfday — him are so happy!” 


THE END. 


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#x# 



A NEW UNIFORM EDITION 


MRS. MOLESWORTH’S 

STORIES FOR CHILDREN 

WITH 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY WALTER CRANE AND LESLIE BROOKE. 


In Ten Volumes. i2mo. Cloth. One Dollar a Volume. 


Tell Me a Story, and Herr Baby. 

“Carrots,” and A Christmas Child. 

Grandmother Dear, and Two Little Waifs. 

The Cuckoo Clock, and The Tapestry Room. 
Christmas-Tree Land, and A Christmas Posy. 
The Children of the Castle, and Four Winds Farm. 

Little Miss Peggy, and Nurse Heatherdale’s Story. 
“ Us,” and The Rectory Children. 

Rosy, and The Girls and I. 

Mary. 

THE SET, TEN VOLUMES, IN BOX, $10.00. 


“ It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child than to draw a lifelike man 
or woman: Shakespeare and Webster were the only two men of their age who could 
do it with perfect delicacy and success; at least, if there was another who could, I 
must crave pardon of his happy memory for my forgetfulness or ignorance of his 
name. Our own age is more fortunate, on this single score at least, having a larger 
and far nobler proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of George 
Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite and masterly, whose love is so 
thoroughly according to knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, 
so truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth’s. Any chapter of The Ctickoo Clock 
or the enchanting Adventures of Herr Baby is worth a shoal of the very best novels 
dealing with the characters and fortunes of mere adults.” — Mrs. A. C. Swinburne, 
in The Nineteenth Century. 

MACMILLAN & CO., 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


I 


MRS. MOLESWORTH’S 


STORIES FOR CHILDREN. 


“There is hardly a better author to put into the hands of children than Mrs. 
Molesworth. I cannot easily speak too highly of her work. It is a curious art she 
has, not wholly English in its spirit, but a cross of the old English with the Italian. 
Indeed, I should say Mrs. Molesworth had also been a close student of the German 
and Russian, and had some way, catching and holding the spirit of all, created a 
method and tone quite her own. . . . Her characters are admirable and real.” — Si. 
Louis Globe Democrat. 

“Mrs. Molesworth has a rare gift for composing stories for children. With a 
light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and strong, charac- 
ters.” — Congregationalist. 

“Mrs. Molesworth always has in her books those charming touches of nature 
that are sure to charm small people. Her stories are so likely to have been true that 
men ‘grown up’ do not disdain them.” — Home Joitmal. 

“ No English writer of childish stories has a better reputation than Mrs. Moles- 
worth, and none with whose stories we are familiar deserves it better. She has a 
motherly knowledge of the child nature, a clear sense of character, the power of 
inventing simple incidents that interest, and the ease which comes of continuous 
practice.” — Mail and Express. 

“ Christmas would hardly be Christmas without one of Mrs. Molesworth’s stories. 
No one has quite the same power of throwing a charm and an interest about the 
most commonplace every-day doings as she has, and no one has ever blended fairy- 
land and reality with the same skill.” — Educational Times. 

“Mrs. Molesworth is justly a great favorite with children; her stories for them 
are always charmingly interesting and healthful in tone.” — Boston Home Journal. 

“ Mrs. Molesworth’s books are cheery, wholesome, and particularly well adapted to 
refined life. It is safe to add that Mrs. Molesworth is the best English prose writer 
for children. . . . Anew volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a treat.” — The 
Beacon. 

“No holiday season would be complete for a host of young readers without a volume 
from the hand of Mrs. Molesworth. ... It is one of the peculiarities of Mrs. 
Molesworth’s stories that older readers can no more escape their charm than younger 
ones.” — Christian Union. 

“ Mrs. Molesworth ranks with George Macdonald and Mrs. Ewing as a writer of 
children’s stories that possess real literary merit.” — Milwaukee Setituiel. 


THE SET, TEN VOLUMES, IN BOX, $10.00. 


MACMILLAN & CO., 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


2 


TELL ME A STORY, and HERR BABY 


“ So delightful that we are inclined to join in the petition, and we hope she may 
soon tell us more stories.” — Athenceum. 


CARROTS Just a Little Boy. 

“ One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to 
meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to 
read about is at once to become very fond of.” — Exantmer. 


A CHRISTMAS CHILD ; A Sketch of a Boy’s Life. 

“ A very sweet and tenderly drawn sketch, with life and reality manifest through- 
out.” — Pall Mall Gazette. 

“ This is a capital story, well illustrated. Mrs. Molesworth is one ot those sunny, 
genial writers who has genius for writing acceptably for the young. She has the 
happy faculty of blending enough real with romance to make her stories very practi- 
cal for good without robbing them of any of their exciting interest.” — Chicago Inter- 
Ocean. 

“Mrs. Molesworth’s A Christmas Child is a story of a boy-life. The book is a 
small one, but none the less attractive. It is one of the best of this year’s juveniles.” 

— Chicago Tribune. 

“ Mrs. Molesworth is one of the few writers of tales for children whose sentiment 
though of the sweetest kind is never sickly ; whose religious feeling is never concealed 
yet never obtruded ; whose books are always good but never ‘ goody.’ Little Ted 
with his soft heart, clever head, and brave spirit is no morbid presentment of the 
angelic child ‘ too good to live,’ and who is certainly a nuisance on earth, but a 
charming creature, if not a portrait, whom it is a privilege to meet even in fiction.” 

— The Academy! 


MACMILLAN & CO., 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 

3 


THE CUCKOO CLOCK 




33 ^ 

“ A beautiful little story. ... It will be read with delight by every child into 
whose hands it is placed.” — Pall Mall Gazette. 



GRANDMOTHER DEAR. 

“ The author’s concern is with the development of character, and seldom does one 
meet with the wisdom, tact, and good breeding which pervades this little book.” — 
Nation. 


TWO LITTLE WAIFS. 

“ Mrs. Molesworth’s delightful story of Two Little Waifs charm all the small 
people who find It in their stockings. It relates the adventures of two lovable Eng- 
lish children lost in Paris, and is just wonderful enough to pleasantly wring the youth- 
ful heart.” — Nerv York Tribune. 

“ It is, in its way, indeed, a little classic, of which the real beauty and pathos can 
hardly be appreciated by young people. ... It is not too much to say of the story 
that it is perfect of its kind.” — Critic and Good Literature. 

“ Mrs. Molesworth is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories are always 
acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and her record of the adventures of 
the little waifs is as entertaining and enjoyable as we might expect.” — Boston 
Courier. 

“ Two Little Waifs by Mrs. Molesworth is a pretty little fancy, relating the adven- 
tures of a pair of lost children, in a style full of simple charm. It is among the very 
daintiest of juvenile books that the season has yet called forth ; and its pathos and 
humor are equally delightful. The refined tone and the tender sympathy with the 
feelings and sentiments of childhood, lend it a special and an abiding charm.” — Bos- 
ton Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“This is a charming little juvenile story from the pen of Mrs. Molesworth, 
detailing the various adventures -of a couple of motherless children in searching for 
their father, whom they had missed in Paris where they had gone to meet him.” — 
Montreal Star. 

“ Mrs. Molesworth is a popular name, not only with a host of English, but with a 
considerable army of young American readers, who have been charmed by her deli- 
cate fancy and won by the interest of her style. Two Little Waifs, illustrated by 
Walter Crane, is a delightful story, which comes, as all children’s stories ought to do, 
to a delightful end.” — Christian Utiion. 


MACMILLAN & CO., 


66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. ^ 
















